In the Driver's Seat
by penna.nomen
Summary: How does Neal adapt to being part of Peter's team? Who's in the driver's seat? Friends, family, and coworkers offer advice to Peter and Neal. Neal gets to know June & Byron. Angst because Byron is dying. Memories of past Christmases. A car is totaled, but it went out in style. Dec 2003. Pre-series Caffrey Conversation AU where Peter recruited Neal instead of arresting him
1. Dreams

_A/N: This story is part of a series, but is intended to be readable as a standalone._

 **Federal Building, Manhattan, NY. December 15, 2003. Monday evening.**

When Peter's laptop beeped a reminder at him, it took him by surprise. He double-checked the time and shook his head. This morning he'd texted Elizabeth as he got out of his car in the parking garage at a few minutes before 7am, excited to start his first day as the leader of the Manhattan White Collar task force. She'd responded, betting that he wouldn't make it back to his car within twelve hours and that she'd plan their celebration dinner accordingly.

At the time he'd blithely responded that as the boss he could leave whenever he wanted, and had received a "ha-ha" in reply.

They both knew that he'd be working overtime the next few days in order to limit interruptions during their vacation next week. Still, he hadn't intended to work this late. He shut down the laptop and sped through the empty bullpen, only to tap his foot impatiently in the elevator lobby.

He was two parking spots away from his car when his phone rang. "Hey, hon," he answered. "You were right."

"Should I hold off on dinner?"

"No, I'm at the car now." He unlocked the door and slid into the driver's seat. "Hear that?" He slammed the door shut as loudly as he could, and started the engine.

"I won't distract you while you're driving. I'm looking forward to hearing about your day over Chicken Cacciatore. It should be ready as soon as you walk in the door."

"Sounds great. Love you, El."

"Love you, too."

He thought back over the day with satisfaction as he drove. It wasn't until he reached the Brooklyn Bridge that he realized he had a problem: his wife wanted to hear about his day.

After four years of marriage, he took for granted her understanding that as an FBI agent he couldn't provide details about his day. The cases he worked on had to be kept confidential — not only until they caught the bad guys, but often until those bad guys had been tried and convicted.

Clearly she expected that his new managerial duties were something he could discuss, and therefore he'd be sharing a lot more about his job. But what could he say? He'd spent most of his day comparing vacation schedules to case workloads to decide who should cover which cases when more than half the team took time off over the Christmas and New Year's holidays. It appealed to his logical, mathematical nature to arrange the puzzle pieces of schedules, workloads, and skill sets to find the perfect matches.

He was confident that solving puzzles appealed to Neal Caffrey, too. It was just a matter of presenting the right puzzles to keep the newest team member interested enough to stick around. Peter's biggest fear was what Neal would do next week. The kid was too new to the FBI to work a case on his own, and the few folks not going on vacation wouldn't have time to mentor him. Mentoring was supposed to be Peter's job, and after his vacation they'd find the right case to use Neal's skills. In the meantime, the worry was that Neal would get bored and either quit or get into trouble. Or both.

When he'd recruited Neal a couple of weeks ago, Peter had joked about using him as a topic of conversation with his father-in-law, the psychiatrist. Alan always made Peter uncomfortable. He had this way of looking at people as if he were peering into their innermost thoughts. El's father would probably be fascinated by the (hopefully) reformed thief who viewed Peter as a father figure. And it was safe to talk about Neal, because he wasn't a case anymore. His confession had closed the books on his past crimes.

As Peter walked into the house to be greeted by a six-month-old puppy, he was smiling. Neal was the answer. El would be interested in hearing about the first day of the newest team member, and that was a perfectly safe topic.

 **Burke residence, Brooklyn, NY.**

El listened with rapt attention as her husband actually shared details about his work. She'd started to worry he'd never let her in, and suddenly he was opening up about his newest employee. He'd talked all through the meal, and continued as they stood up to carry the dishes into the kitchen.

"Let me get this straight," she said as she filled the sink with warm water. "Neal was using the alias Henry Winslow when you recruited him, and now he's claiming… what exactly?"

Peter added dish soap to the water. "He says it isn't a name he made up, but an actual person who willingly shares his identity."

"Why would someone do that?"

"According to Neal, because he has a twisted sense of humor. I really can't tell at this point if Winslow is a friend, a rival, or someone Neal is making up."

"So you think he's lying to you?"

Peter started to wash the dishes. "Not exactly. There's an element of truth in there, but he's hiding more than he's telling."

El took the clean dishes, drying them and putting them away. "You sound worried."

"Yeah. I'm not letting him see that, though. There's something about his expression whenever the topic of Winslow comes up. I can tell it's a game to Neal. He's teasing me, challenging me to figure it out. He won't tell me the full story, but he'll answer occasional questions and provide a few clues."

"So you enjoy the mystery."

"That's right. If it doesn't go on too long, I'll let him get away with it. I can't let him think he's bamboozled the boss. If he starts to think he's smarter than me, I could be in trouble."

She worked in silence as she considered what she'd heard. She really wanted to meet Neal, and would love to invite him over for dinner, but Peter wasn't a big fan of mixing his personal and work lives. "From what you've said, Neal's feeling a little lost right now. The Bureau must be very foreign to him."

Peter snorted. "You should have seen his face when I handed him the benefits forms. You'd think I'd told him they were a Yeti."

"If you don't mind some advice, I'd say play along with him for as long as you can. Keep gathering clues and showing you can keep up with Neal, but don't push him to tell you the full story right away."

"What's your thinking behind that?" Peter drained the water and helped dry the last of the pots and pans.

"You have the upper hand in a lot of ways right now. You're the boss. You have tons more experience with the job and with working for the government. This game he's playing with you could feel like the only thing he's in control of when he's at work. It seems harmless enough, right?"

"So far," Peter agreed.

"To me it sounds like this game is acting as his release valve. If you take that away, his frustration will build up and it could explode. But if you wait for him to tell you the full story, you'll know he's made a big step in trusting you and in feeling like he really belongs on your team."

 **Aloha Emporium, Manhattan, NY.**

Neal's phone beeped and he read the text message. _Updates now._

It was Henry again. He'd been sending increasingly urgent texts over the last two hours.

Neal started to put the phone back in his pocket.

Another beep. _Answer or I book a flight to NYC._

His phone rang. "Sorry, I'd better take this," Neal said to Billy and Maggie Feng. Billy and his daughter owned the Aloha Emporium and were letting Neal stay in a room above the shop until he could find his own place. They'd been chatting in an orchid grow room, enjoying a cup of tea while they discussed the scent of a potted orchid Billy had carried to the table. Maggie said it reminded her of cocoa, while Neal detected scents of vanilla and cinnamon.

Billy smiled. "Take your time. My _oncidium ornathorrhychium_ will still be here tomorrow."

Neal nodded his thanks and then strode toward the door. He'd learned that Billy shared stories about his orchids to convey advice, and apparently tonight's lesson was a two-parter. First, the conversation about the pleasant scents was wrapped around a thinly veiled suggestion that Neal should use his skills to please his new coworkers so that they would like having him around. And second, the comment about being there tomorrow was a reminder that Neal needed to be patient and give his new job a chance. Billy knew Neal had panicked and nearly bailed on the job before he even started.

"Yeah?" he said into the phone as the door closed behind him. "Impatient much?"

"What could be more important than telling me about your first day working at the FBI?"

Neal jogged down the stairs. "Dinner."

"Hmm." Henry pondered this. "Was there dessert?"

"Chocolate haupia pie. You'd love it." Neal stepped into his room and took a seat on the futon. The cushions were covered in blue and ivory fabric with a Hawaiian design featuring stylized turtles and hibiscus blossoms. The same fabric was used for the curtains, and the floors were a pale bamboo with a large sisal rug in the center of the room. The decor gave the space a tropical feel in contrast to the dark, cold night outdoors. He felt a world away from the FBI offices.

"How'd it go today?"

Neal glanced at the stack of papers on a table next to the futon. "The amount of forms and paperwork is insane. Peter handed me a bunch to go through tonight." He picked them up and thumbed through them. "Insurance enrollment and the government's version of a 401K. I'm going to list you as my beneficiary. It'll drive him nuts when he sees that." Henry was Neal's oldest and best friend, making him the obvious choice to be Neal's beneficiary, with the added bonus of Peter's reaction.

"He still isn't convinced I'm a real person?"

"He thinks I made you up to mess with him. And I tell him outrageous stories about you to perpetuate that suspicion."

Henry chuckled. "I take it he doesn't know about the background check I ran on him when you learned he was the agent assigned to catch you."

"Somehow that didn't come up."

"What else happened?"

"Crash course on their computer systems, and they gave me some cases. Case files, anyway. Stuff to research. Peter says he's not sending me into the field until next month."

"Why hire you if he isn't going to let you do anything?"

"Annoying, I know, but Peter says the first time I do field work I'm supposed to partner with him, and he's going on vacation soon." Neal grinned. "I get vacation days."

Henry pounced on that, insisting that Neal meet him in D.C. over the long weekend following Christmas. Neal resisted at first, but found himself tempted at the thought of seeing where his parents had met and lived. It's not like he had plans for the holiday, and eventually he agreed. Neal thought he'd successfully distracted his friend, but then Henry said, "You've only mentioned Peter. What about the rest of the White Collar team?"

Neal slouched into the futon and propped his feet up on a rattan basket with a cushioned lid. "Agent Tricia Wiese is Peter's second-in-command. She gave me the case files to research and seemed pleasantly surprised with my work when I gave her my notes at the end of the day. Agent Clinton Jones was the new guy before I came along. Ex-Navy with a law degree. He's been showing me the ropes. Seems friendly enough, and he warned me about Hitchum."

"And Hitchum is…?"

"Hardcore agent in the once-a-criminal-always-a-criminal school of thought. Doesn't trust me an inch, and — as Jones warned me — has signed up team members to follow me over my lunch hour to prove I'm up to no good. Hitchum signed himself up to go first, and I led him to a series of shops I figured he'd hate."

"Such as?"

"Sex toys, items for people with a leather fetish, that kind of thing. I can't say more or you'll guess what I got you for Christmas. Anyway, I'm planning to take a lunch with me and eat at my desk the rest of the week."

"Hmm."

"Is that a naughty gift _hmm_ , or a lunch at my desk _hmm_?"

"What would you do over your lunch hour if no one was following you?"

Neal smiled. "Same thing I was doing last week — keeping my promise to Michael Darling. He insisted I practice playing the piano more."

"I still can't believe you met a retired rock legend and I wasn't along. Where are you practicing?"

"Last week it was at a hospital when I helped Maggie deliver flowers. They invited me back this week — they're doing caroling for patients over the lunch hour."

"Why not let the agents follow you to something like that? They'd be impressed."

"Good point."

"If not caroling, pick something else that lets them get to know you. And do your best to get to know them, too. I know it's tempting to close up and protect yourself, but that will only feed their suspicions that you're up to something."

"They know what I've confessed to, and that they couldn't catch me even though I was on their radar for a while. If they actually believe they can get away with tailing me, they're idiots. And if they realize I'm letting them catch me, then they go back to being suspicious again."

"So get creative. Maybe turn it into a training exercise."

"That's how Hitchum justified it. He claims it's training, with a side benefit of showing I'm not trustworthy." Neal considered the possibilities. "There is actually a lot I could teach the team if they want to learn."

"It's worth a shot."

"Yeah, I'll think about it."

"Good. Are you going back to work tomorrow?"

Neal sat up straight, surprised by the question. "Of course I'm going back."

"So you like it."

"That sounds lame."

"Then what sounds better?"

"Well, it's a challenge, in ways I expected, you know. Learning new things, winning over people predisposed to distrust me. It's the ultimate con, but not, because I'm not lying to them. Some of the cases are intriguing; looking at them from the perspective of solving them instead of planning them uses my existing skill set, just in a different way. Peter said it all along, and now I'm really seeing how I can offer a lot and gain a lot at the same time." Neal paused. "And I made a commitment to him, to give it a chance. That means waiting around for a couple of _real_ cases, out in the field. That's when I'll know if I made the right choice."

Henry sighed. It wasn't loud, and he probably didn't intend for Neal to hear, but it reminded him that Henry was employed by his family's company after years of saying he'd never go to work for them. Neal suspected that they'd coerced him into taking the job somehow, but Henry wouldn't admit it.

"You haven't said anything about Winston-Winslow in a while. Are things going okay for you there?" Neal asked.

"When I can avoid my dad, it's good. I wish my grandfather hadn't retired; Pops used to run interference." There was a sound in the background, probably Henry popping the top off a bottle of beer. "One last question. Any nightmares?"

Neal bit back a groan. "Not this again." Sometimes his dreams featured repressed memories of the time his mom's ex-boyfriend abducted him. Neal didn't keep many secrets from his best friend, but they each had a couple of topics they considered off limits, and this was one of them.

"Starting a new job is stressful," Henry said.

"And you're an armchair psychologist looking for a patient. I'm fine, man. This isn't exactly the same kind of stress."

"You've described Peter as a mentor. Kind of like a father figure. That could be a trigger."

"Listen, if it'll make you feel any better, I'll tell you what I remember about my dreams last night. Peter and I were in my rental car, the one I had in St. Louis a couple of weeks ago."

"The one you rented in my name?"

"Yeah. We were on the way to the airport, and Peter was doing his race car driver imitation, breaking the speed limit, slamming on the brakes, bragging about the training he got at Quantico."

"Peter was driving your rental?"

"Technically _your_ rental," Neal said. "When we were in St. Louis, Peter made a point of how it wasn't in my name. Anyway, the dream was just Peter pushing the car to its limits and me complaining about the speed and saying I wanted to drive. Just a random memory. No nightmare elements."

"I took a class on dreams and the unconscious mind when I was getting my master's degree."

"Yeah, I remember."

"Dreams about being a passenger in a vehicle often reflect concerns of not being in control in your waking life."

"Is that any surprise, with everything going on in my life right now?"

 _A/N: Thanks for reading! To see the characters, places, music, and other things referenced in this story, visit the In the Driver's Seat Pinterest board._

 _It has been a blast returning to an early point in the series. This story falls between Choirboy Caffrey and By the Book. I resisted the temptation to include spoilers._

 _Thanks to Silbrith for acting as beta and editor! She's currently posting the story Lion's Lair, which is tied to this same series, with the White Collar/Caffrey Conversation characters in a 1970s setting with elements of the Cthulhu Mythos._


	2. Turtle

**Federal Building, Manhattan, NY. December 17, 2003. Wednesday morning.**

"Join me for coffee?"

Neal looked up from his desk to see Agent Tricia Wiese. She had her coat over her arm, and that indicated she wasn't talking about a cup of the breakroom swill. "God, yes." He stood up and grabbed his coat. "Lead the way."

She chuckled as they entered the elevator lobby. "You know, it's okay to head outside for coffee whenever you want, as long as you time it around the meetings you're supposed to attend."

Neal punched the down button. "Uh-huh. I see people come and go all the time without checking in with anyone, so I get it in theory. I also see the way they look at me the instant I leave my desk, and how they note the time when I return. Hitchum isn't the only one ready to accuse me of being a slacker. Or worse."

The elevator arrived and they stepped inside. It was nearly full, and they paused their conversation until they reached the lobby. As they pulled on their coats near the main entrance, Tricia said, "FBI agents don't trust easily. Most of us had doubts when we heard Peter had recruited you."

Neal followed her outside. "Is this going to be a talk about how you're keeping an eye on me? Because I've already heard it from a couple of agents, as if I hadn't already guessed. I'd rather skip the coffee than hear it again."

"No lectures, I promise. More like an apology and an offer of friendship." They'd crossed the plaza and were near the street. Tricia hailed a cab.

"You don't like the coffee shops around here?" Neal asked. "I don't mind exploring, but I need to get back in time for whoever's supposed to tail me over lunch."

"Don't worry about it. Hitchum assigned me as your Wednesday tail. Without asking me or checking my schedule, I might add. We're getting an early start because I'm taking the afternoon off. I'm going to help with an event at the school where my sister-in-law works." They climbed into a cab that answered Tricia's hail and she faced Neal. "You can bail if you want. I won't tell anyone."

"I'm not turning down coffee and an apology."

Tricia gave the driver directions to a cafe near the school. When the cab was underway, she said, "I'll start with the apology. Normally when someone new joins my group, I make a point of introducing myself the first day and scheduling time to get to know them over coffee or lunch. I should have made that effort with you."

Neal shrugged. "I wouldn't have known I was being snubbed if you hadn't told me."

"True enough, but our coworkers know and I have enough seniority that many will follow my lead."

"Another reason you stopped by my desk at 11:00. By noon the bullpen would be half empty, but at 11:00 more people heard you invite me to coffee." Neal studied her. "Why did you ask me to join you for coffee instead of calling it an early lunch?"

"I wasn't a fan of Hitchum presuming I'd go along with his lunchtime spying. I certainly don't want the rest of the team to think I condone it. And this way it's too late for him to sign someone else up to replace me."

"I think I'm going to like you."

"Same here. Your work on the case files I gave you was solid. I agreed with your findings, and the main feedback I need to give you is that your write-ups should be longer to satisfy Peter's preference for more detail. Beyond that, your conclusions made sense and you worked quickly. I hope we'll be assigned to cases together when Peter's ready to send you into the field."

"Thanks."

"Tomorrow I'd like to talk through your work in more detail, to get a sense for your thought process. Then I'll pick out another set of case files for you. Peter wants you to see a wide range of the type of cases we handle, so this is your advance warning that it will be a lot of files. Hopefully enough to keep you busy next week." She paused. "Did anyone tell you about Friday?"

Neal shook his head.

"There's an office party mid-afternoon in the big conference room. Everyone brings snacks and sweets, and the Bureau will order in punch and real coffee."

"A Christmas party?"

"Back when I started working for the Bureau, that's what we called it. These days there's more sensitivity about mixing work and religion. Officially it's called the Winter Party, but most of us call it the Sugar Rush because it's all about desserts. Then around 4pm, Hughes will stop by and tell us we can head home early if we want. Our floor will be empty by 4:15."

Neal raised a brow. "Even Peter goes home early?"

"Even Peter."

Over the next half hour, Neal learned that Tricia was a fellow coffee snob. As he savored a latte and a fluffy quiche he said, "Any time you want a companion for a coffee break, say the word. I'm at your disposal."

She grinned. "Unlike Peter. He's perfectly fine drinking Bureau brew."

"I'm determined to win him over. I've learned he appreciates a good Italian roast."

"I'll keep that in mind. And his wife's a foodie. I'm certain she can be persuaded to help." Tricia sipped her coffee. "On the other hand, she hasn't been able to stop him from bringing deviled ham sandwiches for lunch."

"You've met Elizabeth?"

"She's visited the office a few times to meet Peter for lunch or when they have evening plans where it makes more sense for them to meet up in Manhattan than in Brooklyn. The most memorable time was a couple of months ago when she brought their puppy along. You should've seen…" She trailed off when her phone vibrated. "Excuse me." She read a text message, and the phone kept vibrating as more messages popped up. She scrolled through them, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"Something wrong?" Neal asked.

Tricia opened her eyes again. "Looks like the school is canceling the event. We were going to take the choir caroling at a nearby nursing home, but several residents came down with the flu today. We don't want to expose the kids to the virus."

"Do you believe in fate?"

"No. Do you?"

It took a moment for Neal to recover from the shock. "Well, yeah. I mean, what are the chances of Peter going undercover as the client for a theft I was recruited to join at the last minute — in St. Louis when we both live in New York — and him recruiting me instead of arresting me?"

"If you're going to be that specific, it sounds like a massive coincidence, but step back for a moment. Peter had been assigned to catch you. He'd been studying you for months and was closing in. Sooner or later he was going to find you." She paused to let Neal take that in. "He didn't recruit you on a whim, Neal. He based that decision on a combination of studying your previous crimes and observing your actions when you met. The fact that it happened in St. Louis rather than here was the most random thing about it."

"But if you're saying him recruiting me was bound to happen no matter where he caught me, aren't you confirming that it was fate?"

"No, I'm confirming that it was a logical sequence of actions on his part, given a known set of variables. But we can debate it later. I'm guessing the fate question was prompted by an idea for the canceled event?"

"Yeah." Neal cleared his mind of questions for Tricia and returned to his original train of thought. "There's a hospital nearby that's doing caroling over the lunch hour. They send groups of singers door-to-door to visit patients who can't leave their rooms, and another group gathers in a common area where patients and their families can get away from the hospital vibe. If the transportation you had lined up is still available you can get there in time."

 **Aloha Emporium, Manhattan, NY. Wednesday evening.**

"So I hung around long enough to introduce the choir director to the woman who organizes the caroling at the hospital," Neal told Maggie Feng. "I joined in for the first song, and then went back to the office." He shook his head. "It was weird seeing a bunch of elementary students like that."

Maggie refilled her cup of tea. "You didn't mention it being weird when you helped me deliver flowers to the children's ward."

Neal followed her lead and refilled his own cup. "It's different, dealing with one or two kids at a time. A whole class…" He paused. People often thought of certain events as being breakpoints in their life, a time when things changed drastically. Typically they'd refer to life before and after graduating from high school or college, then before and after getting married.

For Neal, the breakpoints were different. One was the day he'd run away from home. He suspected that going to work for the FBI would be another milestone that marked a significant change in his life. Going into WITSEC would have been such an event for his mother.

Another breakpoint for him — the one he tried not to think about — was being abducted near the end of third grade. After that incident he'd been a loner for a while, anxious and distrustful of others.

The carefree innocence of an elementary school field trip simply boggled his mind. It felt alien, and the fact that it felt so strange and distant brought home how much the abduction had changed him. It wasn't something he liked to acknowledge.

Maggie was still waiting for his answer, and he said, "They were a barrage of normal… It felt like a Norman Rockwell moment, like something I could taint if I hung around too long." Neal pushed his chair back. "Sorry. I'm in a strange mood. I should go up to my room and not inflict it on you."

"Turtle," said Billy, walking into the room.

"Huh?" Did Billy think Neal was being slow on the uptake? Or was he comparing Neal's offer to leave to hiding in a shell?

Billy placed a plant on the table. "This is the Turtle Shell orchid. I picked turtles as my theme for the holidays."

Neal looked to Maggie to see if this made sense to her. "We don't celebrate Christmas," she said, "but many of our customers do. Instead of going with religious symbols or Santa Claus, each year we pick an animal to highlight for decorations in the store."

Neal nodded. He had noticed new turtle-themed items appearing each day — not only in the store, but also in the living spaces. "I'd wondered if all the turtles were a subtle hint — like I was being too slow to move out."

Billy chuckled. "Not at all. You have much to learn from the turtle."

"Stop and smell the roses? Or the orchids?" Neal guessed.

"You're thinking of the Greek legend. Aesop's fables. In other cultures, the turtle represents good luck and endurance."

"You mean the doubts I had last week about working for the FBI? I thought I told you Peter and I talked it through before my first day. I'm gonna stick around and give it a fair shot."

Billy smiled and shook his head, causing Neal and Maggie to toss out increasingly wild ideas.

"Eat turtle soup," Maggie suggested after a few minutes.

"Wear turtleneck shirts," Neal said.

"I'll give you a hint," Billy offered. "Terry Pratchett."

"Oh!" Maggie stood and dashed over to a bookcase.

"Is that a philosopher?" Neal guessed.

"A British author. He writes fantasy," Maggie said. She picked up several books and carried them back to the table. "He's been publishing for twenty years. I started reading them in college, and recommended them to Father."

Billy nodded. "I wanted to improve my English, and reading the books gave me practice."

"I don't remember a turtle." Maggie opened a book and flipped through the pages.

"You will," Billy predicted.

Neal excused himself, leaving Maggie and Billy to reminisce. Back in his room, he left a voicemail for Mozzie. A voracious reader, Mozz would probably know exactly what Billy was hinting at.

Drifting to sleep a few hours later, a memory slipped into his mind. He resisted at first, because recently memories from his childhood meant another nightmare was waiting in the wings, but this time it was harmless.

 _The second grade class was lined up at the front of the lunchroom. They sang the Christmas song they'd been practicing for a month, a few of them waving at family members who had taken the afternoon off to join the event. There was applause when they finished, and then they followed their teacher to the second row of the seating. First graders were in the first row, and so on through fifth graders. All of the sixth graders were in the hallway, preparing for the next scene of their production of_ A Christmas Carol _. There were five breaks in the play, with each grade taking a turn to sing a song loosely related to what was happening in the play, while the sixth graders changed costumes and prepared for the next scene._

 _As a second grader, this was the second time Neal had attended the event. Of course he was Danny Brooks back then, unaware that he was in WITSEC and living under a fake name._

 _Danny understood that in a few more years he'd be one of the big kids — a sixth grader taking part in the play. Every sixth grader had a part, even if it was simply sitting around in the background without any lines to say._

 _An hour later he clambered into his mother's car, and chatted non-stop while she drove them home._

 _"An' I didn't forget any of the words this time, but I like the third graders' song better. Do you think we'll sing that song next year?"_

 _"Probably," his mother said. "I remember the songs were the same as last year."_

 _"Good. An' I already know that song, so I won't forget any words. An' they get to play instruments." There'd been triangles, recorders, a xylophone, and some handbells for a brief interlude that was more exuberant than melodic. "Do you think they'll let me play one next year?"_

 _At a stoplight, his mom reached over and tousled his hair. She didn't do that much anymore. He only squirmed a little bit because he kind of liked it. "I started piano lessons when I was your age."_

 _He looked at her with wide eyes, which she probably didn't notice because the light changed and she kept her eyes on the road as she drove. His mom so rarely spoke about her own childhood that every time she made an offhand comment like that he considered it a gift. He had a small collection of random facts like this one. "Could I do that?" He moved his fingers in the air in front of him, imitating what he'd seen the choir teacher do. "Could I learn the third grade song?"_

 _"It's an easy enough melody." His mother frowned. "We'll have to see if we can afford classes and find a way for you to practice. I don't know where we'd fit a piano in our house."_

As an adult, Neal realized that his mother hadn't wanted a piano because she'd been a gifted musician herself, and that had been part of the pre-WITSEC identity she'd left behind. He was grateful now that she hadn't denied him the chance to explore his own interest in music.

 _A/N: My thanks to Silbrith for letting me borrow Billy and Maggie Feng. She created them and the Aloha Emporium._

 _If you want the full story of how Peter and Neal met in St. Louis, and how that led to Neal joining Peter's team, check out the first story in this series: Caffrey Conversation._


	3. Trust and Respect

**Federal Building, Manhattan, NY. December 18, 2003. Thursday morning.**

Jones rolled his chair over to Neal's desk. "What happened with the couple who said they had a place you could rent?"

Jones had been assigned to tail Neal over lunch on Tuesday. They'd gone to New York Presbyterian and encountered patient Byron Ellington and his wife June. The couple had enjoyed Neal's performance, and when Neal mentioned that he didn't have a piano of his own to practice on, they'd made him an offer. Neal could rent a space in their home and play their piano, in return for helping keep Byron entertained and distracted as his health deteriorated.

"I checked it out Tuesday night," Neal said. "They have a place on Riverside Drive. The apartment's on the fourth floor, has a charming vintage kitchen and ugly bathroom that looks like it was renovated in the 1980s. They're willing to rent it for a song, almost literally. As long as I hang out with them and sing for Byron, the rent's almost ridiculously cheap for Manhattan." He shrugged. "I'd be a fool to pass it up. I'm going to move in on Saturday."

"Four floors. Do they have an elevator?"

"There's an ancient service elevator that's currently out of service. That's one of the reasons Byron has to stay on the first floor. He's moved into a guest room on that level."

"You need any help carrying your stuff up to the fourth floor?"

"Are you offering?"

"I've got time, and I'm curious about this couple who offered you the space." Jones lowered his voice. "I ran them through the Bureau databases, to see if they're legit. They're loaded, and he has a record."

"They told me about that. Cons, thefts, illegal gambling. Nothing violent."

Jones nodded. "Small time stuff, at least what he was arrested for. He didn't spend very long in prison."

"My stuff isn't heavy," Neal said, "but a car could be useful if you want to help."

Jones looked surprised. "Just a car?"

"The place is furnished, and your car is an SUV. That'll carry everything I plan to take."

Team members started standing up. Jones and Neal decided on a time to meet on Saturday, and followed the team to the morning briefing.

 **#**

"That's it. Let's get to work," Peter said. He thought it might become his catchphrase at the end of morning briefings.

The members of the White Collar task force stood up and headed out to the bullpen. Tricia lagged behind and said, "Neal, do you have a minute? There's something I wanted to talk about while it's fresh on my mind."

"Sure. Hey, how did the field trip go?"

Peter paused. He'd opened the door that joined the conference room to his office and was about to step through. He should be glad that his second-in-command and Neal sounded comfortable consulting with each other, right? He could get back to the incredibly long list of things he needed to finish before leaving on vacation, and let them handle whatever this was on their own.

"Peter, you're welcome to stay if you want," Tricia said.

Peter turned around, relieved that he wouldn't have to try leaving the door ajar to eavesdrop. He returned to his chair at the head of the table. Neal sat at Peter's left side, and Tricia took the seat on Peter's right.

She opened with, "The field trip was perfect, thank you, Neal. The hospital asked if the choir could come back again in the spring. My sister-in-law is the choir director, and she's over the moon."

Peter remembered that Tricia had taken yesterday afternoon off. "Where did Neal come in?"

"Our planned venue had to cancel at the last minute, and Neal came through with the idea for the kids to sing at the hospital instead." She turned to face Neal. "When you suggested it, you asked if I believe in fate."

Neal nodded. "Shot me down on that."

She smiled. "I was a little stressed, and frankly I'm a proponent of the idea that we're all responsible and accountable for our own actions. If I'm open to the idea that a crime was fated to happen, that has uncomfortable repercussions for my job here."

"I agree," Peter added.

"So it wasn't fate that threw us together in St. Louis, and led to you offering me this job?" Neal asked. "That's what I used as an example talking to Tricia yesterday."

She followed up with, "My response was that hiring him was a logical outcome."

Peter leaned back in his chair to think that through. "Given that I'd been working on your case… I'd learned you were smart, not violent, and not really greedy. I remember wanting to find out what had happened to turn you to a life of crime, and find out if there was a key to turn you back around. The idea of sending you to prison felt like such a waste of your potential." He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I had a plan to catch you that I was going to implement as soon as I got back to New York, so it was only a matter of time until I found you. Who can say how things might have gone down in that scenario? All I can say is that working with you and getting to know you in St. Louis… Well, Tricia's right. Offering you the job seemed like the most logical thing to do. It certainly didn't come to me like a bolt out of the sky or whatever fate is supposed to look like."

Tricia cleared her throat. "However…"

Peter raised a brow. "I thought we were on the same page with this."

"We are. It's just that last night I couldn't help thinking about how I met my husband." She shrugged. "I don't know if I want to go so far as to say we were fated to meet, but it certainly feels like we were meant to be together. Shortly after we met, things just clicked."

"Soulmates," Neal said. "Sometimes you're meant to be with someone."

Peter didn't know what to say, because he was certain if he denied the existence of soulmates and word of it got back to Elizabeth, she would not be pleased. "That's a romantic talking," he said.

"Not necessarily," Neal argued. "That sense of someone being right for you doesn't have to be limited to romantic partners. It can apply to friends, as well. Didn't you ever meet someone who suddenly turned into your best friend?"

"So you're saying we're what — friendmates? Soulfriends?"

Neal grinned. "I was thinking of Henry, rather than you. But sure, you and I clicked, too. I wouldn't have taken the deal you offered if I hadn't experienced an instinctive sense that you're trustworthy, that you really had my best interest in mind."

Peter frowned. "You're just saying that to piss me off. If I disagree about the soulfriends concept, it sounds like I'm disagreeing about how trustworthy I am."

"You're saying we're not friends? After all that time you spent pretending to be my stepfather in St. Louis?" Neal put his hands over his heart and sighed dramatically. "I'm wounded, Peter. Deeply wounded."

"Cut that out," Peter ordered.

Tricia stood up. "I won't weigh in on the soulfriends idea, but you certainly sound like fond family members squabbling with each other."

Neal laughed and stood up, too. "Thanks, Tricia. I'm glad we had this conversation. I think we might be fated to become friends."

"You might be fated to drive me crazy," she said as she led the way out of the conference room.

Peter stayed at the table and said to the empty room, "This wasn't covered in the Bureau's leadership training."

 **Burke residence, Brooklyn, NY. Thursday evening.**

Over dinner, Peter told El about the conversation with Tricia and Neal. Afterward they decided to watch TV, but his mind kept going back to Neal's reminder that Peter had pretended to be his stepfather. He muted the TV when a commercial started, and completely zoned out. El nudged him and he could see the show they were watching had already resumed.

"Give me your phone," she said.

Peter automatically started to hand over the remote, and then paused when her words sunk in. "Okay." He pulled the phone out of his pocket and handed it to her.

She scrolled through the contact list and then gave it back. "I love talking about how you spent your day, but you've gone beyond using me as a sounding board. You want advice, and I can't give it to you. Call your dad."

He nodded. "Have I mentioned recently how much I love brainy brunettes?"

"It never hurts to remind me." She leaned over and kissed him. "This feels like a topic that will have you pacing the floor. Why don't you burn that energy by taking Satchmo for a walk?"

Satchmo heard his name and _walk_ and scampered over to the front door.

"Good idea." Peter pulled on a coat while El attached a leash to the dog's collar. Once he was standing on the sidewalk, Peter pressed the call button. He chatted with his mom and then asked to talk to his dad.

He might be a man of few words, but Luke Burke was also perceptive. "What's on your mind, son?" he asked barely a minute into the conversation.

"I could use your advice about something at work."

"At the FBI?" It took a lot to surprise Luke, and Peter had accomplished it. "Are you working on a case with a construction angle?"

"This is more of a personnel issue. My first new hire started this week. His name is Neal, and he's the youngest person on the team, just twenty-four. From what I've heard about his past, he hasn't had good male role models. He doesn't remember his father, but what he's learned about the guy makes me glad the man wasn't part of his life. One of his mom's boyfriends abused Neal." Peter paused as Satchmo stopped walking to sniff an interesting tree. "The thing is, Neal started joking about seeing me as a father figure right after we met. It's clear now that there's some truth to it."

"Do you mind?"

"I'm flattered." Peter started walking again as Satchmo tugged on the leash to keep exploring. "I'm also worried. I have zero experience at fatherhood, and suddenly here's this young man looking to me for guidance. I keep second-guessing myself."

"First thing I'd say is ditch the second-guessing. He picked you because of something he sees in you. That means he wants the authentic Peter. Needs it, too. Last thing any young man needs is an unrealistic role model who's pretending to be something you're not. It's okay to let him see that you don't know everything."

"You always seemed to know everything."

Luke chuckled. "That's because you had an older brother. I learned from my mistakes, and that means I didn't make as many with you."

Peter's brother was ten years older, and as a result Peter hadn't been around or been old enough to notice missteps Luke made with Joe. "What kind of mistakes?"

"Well now, let's see." Luke thought it over. "Joe was about Neal's age when he got married. I thought it was a bad idea. They hadn't known each other all that long, and they were going into it with a lot of romance and no practicality. Telling Joe he was being immature was a big mistake. Because I started with that insult, we bypassed logic and he just got more and more stubborn, even after I realized what was happening and changed my approach. The damage was done."

"You're both okay now."

"Yeah, after the wedding he calmed down and we patched things up, for the most part. I always suspected he didn't come to me for advice before the divorce because of those original arguments about the marriage. It hurts to think he wasn't comfortable talking to me about his problems. He thought he had to handle it on his own."

"Probably too proud to admit that you'd been right all along."

"He was feeling a combination of shame and resentment, Joe told me later. It's a powerful mix. He's doing his best to avoid causing it in his daughters."

"And I should avoid it with Neal."

"Try to see things from his point of view, when you can. At that age, you still asked me for advice sometimes, but you didn't want your parents hanging over your shoulder telling you what to do."

"Any other advice?"

Luke considered that a moment. "Before I retired, my construction crews usually had a mix of ages. They all had one thing in common. They wanted to be treated with trust and respect. I'd learned the importance of those when we were raising you and Joe, and it applied to the workplace, too."

 **Aloha Emporium, Manhattan, NY. Thursday evening.**

"Who owns a car in New York City?" Maggie asked. Tonight she was drinking hot chocolate instead of tea. "Is he insane?"

"Jones seems like the least insane of my coworkers, actually. I didn't ask why he has a car." Neal added marshmallows to his own cup of hot chocolate. "You drive," he pointed out.

"A delivery truck, and if there was a way to teleport orchids to clients I would absolutely do that."

"When did you learn?"

"In college. And I can tell you that Honolulu traffic isn't fun, either. At least I could go out into the suburbs to practice before I tackled downtown driving. What about you?"

Neal took a sip of hot chocolate as he decided what was safe to share, given that he'd been in WITSEC when he learned to drive, and the person who taught him was still in the program. "I had an aunt who lived in a suburb, and she gave me my first lessons. She had a big pickup truck with standard transmission, and after that anything felt easy."

Later that evening his thoughts returned to those lessons from Ellen. She'd been a great teacher, giving him advice when he needed it, and being patient as he figured things out. When he shopped for his first car, he invited her along to help him decide between his two favorites. Both cars were pretty boring, actually. They were nearly ten years old with faded paint. He couldn't afford anything flashy, but having Ellen's approval meant a lot. She pointed out the pros and cons of each, without coming across as judgmental about his choices.

Ellen realized that Neal had only considered whether he'd saved enough for the purchase price. He hadn't allowed for all of the extra fees, like the title and registration or the insurance. Insurance for a barely seventeen-year-old boy was through the roof, and he'd despaired that he'd never be able to afford it. After he'd picked out the right car, it looked like it was going to slip through his fingers. Ellen came to the rescue, offering to cover those extra costs; she called it his birthday gift.

He'd loved driving that car. No more waiting around for the bus, or asking for rides, or being stuck at the house until his mom got home so he could borrow her car. The freedom to go wherever he wanted whenever he wanted was exhilarating.

A year later, when he'd learned his life was a lie — when Ellen told him they were in WITSEC and his name was really Neal — he'd gone for a drive. For a little while, he regained a sense of control by being in the driver's seat. But then he'd hydroplaned on a wet road, plunging the car into a lake. It felt like a message from fate, that any sense of control over his life was an illusion.

 _A/N: I keep mentioning that Neal drowned. It's first mentioned in Caffrey Conversation, when Neal drives to the place where it happened. It's referred to again in Choirboy Caffrey and By the Book (Neal remembers drowning when he fakes an asthma attack), and in a later story I reveal who rescued Neal from the lake and started CPR._

 _To read about Neal meeting June and Byron at the hospital, check out the final chapters of Choirboy Caffrey._

 _Maggie's question about who owns a car in New York City is almost a direct quote from Silbrith, when she was reflecting on the difference between actually living in NYC versus what we saw in White Collar._

 _The characters Luke and Betty Burke were introduced by Silbrith. One of my regrets when White Collar was canceled was that we didn't get to meet any of Peter's family, and it has been a pleasure to include his parents, brother, and nieces in stories in this AU._


	4. Office Party and Mistletoe

**Federal Building, Manhattan, NY. December 19, 2003. Friday morning.**

Because Neal's desk was near the door to the bullpen, he could see when team members arrived and left. On what was the last day before going on vacation for many of them, they came in late and left for long coffee breaks. Neal soon realized that looking up and making eye contact as they walked by made several of them uneasy — particularly the ones who'd made a point of checking their watches and noting the times he'd come and gone all week.

Not Agent Hitchum, of course. He just got mad. But since the very fact of Neal's existence made him mad, Neal didn't care.

He also noticed that most of the team members took turns walking to Peter's office, carrying wrapped gifts. The fact that Neal hadn't thought to bring anything for Peter was weighing on him. He glanced at the plate of guava thumbprint cookies he'd bought from the Aloha Emporium. If he gave them to Peter as a gift, he'd have nothing to bring to the party.

"Neal?"

He looked up to see Agent Jorge Badillo, who had left fifteen minutes ago. Now the agent held two cups of coffee.

"Agent Wiese said this is your favorite." Jorge handed one of the cups to Neal.

Neal inhaled the steam coming from the lid's opening and nodded. "I have several favorites when it comes to coffee. This is one of them. Thanks."

"Yeah. Umm, some of us…" Jorge looked over his shoulder. "Some of us are sorry about how we treated you the last few days."

Neal raised a brow. "Did Peter tell you to apologize?"

"No. It was Tricia. She read us the riot act yesterday when she caught us comparing notes about you."

"Okay. I appreciate the honesty." Neal tasted the coffee. "Not bad. Are you around next week, Jorge?"

"I'll be here Monday and Tuesday."

"Would you show me where you bought this? I could return the favor, buy one for you."

"I'd like that." Jorge glanced toward Peter's office.

Neal saw yet another team member hand Peter a small, wrapped package. Jorge was one of the few people who hadn't done that yet. "Did you get Peter a gift?"

"No." Jorge looked stressed. "There are lots of rules about gifts at the FBI, you know? Not just from outsiders, but internally, too." He noticed Neal's look of confusion. "You haven't taken the ethics training yet?"

"Not yet. Peter said I could put off most of the online training until next week, because things will be slower then."

"Well the thing is, a government agency — especially one like the FBI — has to avoid even the appearance of bribes and favoritism. There are rules about how much you can spend, and stuff like that. Last year my team's supervisor told us no gifts, because it was too much of a hassle. I assumed Peter would be the same way. He seems like a no-nonsense kind of guy, you know? This morning I tried to find something that would meet all the rules when I was at the coffee shop, but it had been picked clean. All the low-dollar stuff was gone."

Neal held up the coffee Jorge had given him.

"I considered that, but with my luck Peter would be in a meeting and the coffee would be cold before I could give it to him. And I don't know what he likes."

"I'm facing the same quandary," Neal confided. "I didn't realize people would give Peter gifts. Now if I don't give him something, it's one more sign I don't fit in here, and you can bet if I do give him something, there will be people who assume it's payback for hiring me."

"It's a no-win situation," Jorge agreed.

"Good thing con artists — I mean, _retired_ con artists — excel at turning around no-win situations. How do you feel about a joint gift?"

"Something from both of us? I'm in." He checked his watch. "Do we have time to buy something? I mean, I think Agent Collins is supposed to follow you over lunch."

"There's no shopping needed for what I have in mind. We'll make a quick trip to the supply closet, and then find an empty conference room."

 **Federal Building, Manhattan, NY. Friday afternoon.**

"Need a ride?" Peter asked.

Neal was still at his desk, probably concerned he'd be considered a slacker if he left early, but there was no one left to impress. Other than the two of them, the bullpen was deserted. "I don't want to make you late."

"Don't worry about it. El bet me I wouldn't leave the office before 5pm. I've got plenty of time to drop you off and still be home before she's expecting me."

"Okay." Neal closed his laptop and picked up his coat. "Tricia was right about this place turning into a ghost town after the party."

"Gotta get out of here before the sugar rush wears off," Peter explained as they walked to the elevators. "You want to be home by the time you crash." They stepped into an elevator crowded with people eager to get home. Peter could smell the sugar on their breath.

In the parking garage, Peter said, "The card was clever." Neal had given him a hand-drawn card, with an intricate scene of Santa's workshop. The front featured Peter as Santa, with El as Mrs. Claus peeking over his shoulder and Hughes by his side as Jack Frost. The card's interior was filled with toys drawn to resemble the White Collar team members. They were recognizable not only because Neal had a great eye for the details of their faces, but also because the toys were an excellent match to their personalities.

"I couldn't have done it without Jorge. I don't know everyone well enough to guess what toys they would be."

"Jones as a sailor was obvious," Peter said as he unlocked the passenger door for Neal and stowed a bag of gifts from team members in the back seat. "You knew he was in the Navy."

"I wouldn't have guessed Agent Miller as a robot," Neal said while pulling on his seat belt. "Jorge said he's into electronics in a big way."

The engine roared to life and Peter switched on the heater. It was a cold day. "You made Hitchum into a snowman because he's been cold to you."

Neal scoffed. "Not just me. He won't give Jorge the time of day."

"Really?" Peter looked at Neal in surprise.

"Eyes on the road!" Neal insisted.

Peter looked forward in plenty of time to slam his breaks to miss the car that swerved in front of him. "Relax." He waited until they were at a stoplight to ask, "Aloha Emporium, right? You mentioned looking at a new place."

"I'm moving tomorrow. It's the Emporium for one more night."

"Make sure to update your address in your personnel file."

"Got it."

A few blocks later Peter asked, "Everything go all right for you this week?"

"About what I expected. You warned me that research wouldn't be very exciting. I'm looking forward to going into the field."

"I'll find the right case to start you on field work when I'm back from vacation," Peter promised. "About that card… You as a lion?"

Neal grinned. "I've got the best mane on the team."

"Yeah, your hair's okay," Peter said. "But I can't help noticing, _lion_ sounds a lot like _lying_. Were you trying to make a point?"

"A subtle jab at the team members who don't trust me yet."

"If anyone tries to pressure you into lying — "

"I'll tell you," Neal interrupted. "You've made that clear, Peter."

"I know, I know. It's just that I didn't have much time to spend with you this week, and now I'm worried about leaving you to figure everything out on your own. I should have spent more time on your orientation."

"There's at least eight hours of orientation videos I'll watch next week. Anyway, I won't be on my own. Jones will be there, and Jorge's around for the first couple of days."

It was a relief to hear that Neal felt he could turn to his team members for help. There was just one more question that Peter needed to ask. _Trust and respect._ He repeated his father's advice to himself, because he needed to get this right. "The likeness of Elizabeth on the card was amazing." She'd visited the office a few times, but it was hard to believe Jorge had given Neal such an accurate description of her face.

"I'm surprised you don't have a photo of her on your desk."

"She asked me to bring it home. For Christmas she's getting me a fancier frame."

"You know what she's getting you for Christmas?"

"Yeah, we plan together what we're going to get for holidays."

"That doesn't seem romantic." Neal sounded deeply disapproving.

"I told you, I don't go for the whole Gift of the Magi thing. For the most part, we select gifts that involve spending time together, like tickets to an event, or a trip someplace we both want to visit."

"You may have a point." Neal paused. "By event, you mean a movie or play, right? Not a baseball game."

"El loves baseball!" Peter protested.

"We're back to unromantic."

He held back the urge to argue, realizing that Neal was deliberately directing the conversation away from what Peter wanted to ask. "How did you know what El looks like?"

Neal might have squirmed slightly. "When I learned you were the agent assigned to catch me, I wanted to learn more about you."

"Were you surveilling my house?"

"No. I may have asked a couple of friends to do a little research. They found some photos. College yearbook. You playing baseball. A wedding photo in your hometown newspaper, stuff like that."

Peter hadn't realized his parents had sent a wedding photo to their local newspaper, but he wasn't surprised, either. "These friends of yours… Would one of them happen to be Henry Winslow?"

"As a matter of fact, Henry is particularly skilled in research. Finally being able to best him at the game is definitely a perk of working for the FBI. Although he claims his resources are superior."

"So this wasn't you using the alias Henry Winslow to do research. We're talking about the person who lets you use his identity."

"Correct. You can let me off here."

"It's still four blocks away."

"You're heading into gridlock if you keep going in this direction. Take a right at the next street and you can get turned around and head to Brooklyn."

He had a point, but Peter had expected to have a few more minutes to wrap up the conversation. "Let Jones know if you need anything while I'm on vacation. And you have my cell phone number, right? You can call, if you have questions you aren't comfortable asking anyone else. It won't be a problem."

"You're such a dad." Neal opened the door. "Merry Christmas, Peter." He slammed the door before Peter could return the greeting, and waved before walking away.

"I guess that went well," Peter said to the car.

 **Burke residence, Brooklyn, NY. Friday evening.**

"We need to make a list of what's from who," El said while she upended the bag of gifts from Peter's team on the dining room table, "so you can write thank you notes." They'd finished dinner and taken the puppy for a walk, and she refused to ignore those gifts any longer.

Peter groaned at the thought. "This is what I get for assuming the team knew I didn't want gifts. Next year I'm making a formal announcement about it as soon as it's December. No, before that. I'm announcing it before Thanksgiving so no one buys me anything on Black Friday."

"I don't recognize the bag." El held it up to admire. It was a canvas bag featuring cardinals and chickadees on a snowy tree.

"That's from Tricia, and it's probably the only practical thing in the bunch. She got it for free from a nature group she volunteers with."

El nodded. "The Audubon Society. She's mentioned them." She sat down with a pen and paper.

Peter sat down beside her. He unwrapped presents while she made a list of what he'd received. Shredded wrapping paper and bows fell down to the floor, to the delight of Satchmo.

Most of the gifts were candy, and they discussed using them as stocking stuffers for El's niece and nephews. Peter cleared the table and floor of the gift wrap, and that's when El saw the card. "This is adorable!" Peter as Santa wore what was obviously a fake beard; the wires that attached it over his ears had slipped down to reveal most of his face. She stood on tiptoes, looking over his shoulder. The artist had kept her hair straight rather than going with the bun Mrs. Claus traditionally wore, but the apron and hat made her role clear.

"That's from Neal. And Jorge. Neal did the drawing, and Jorge helped with…" Peter opened the card, "… deciding what toys to use."

"Oh!" El studied the interior of the card. "That's genius. Tricia as a Xena doll, with a hawk on her shield." She reached for the pen but changed her mind. "We have to make a copy of this. I don't want to ruin the original, but I want to write down the names of each team member by their toy so I'll recognize them the next time I visit your office." She studied more of the toys. "That's Jones. That's Travis. Who's the angel?"

"That's Jorge. He's one of the most religious team members."

"I want to hug the little lion. Is that Neal?"

"A play on words about how some team members thought he was lyin' about wanting to reform."

"Poor guy." El reached out to prop the card on a buffet table, alongside the other cards they'd received. "Did you thank him?"

Peter frowned.

"You didn't thank him?"

"We talked about the drawings for a while. I remember calling it clever."

"It's a good start, but you can do better."

"I can call him," Peter offered.

"Hmm."

"Don't call him?"

"Who wants a call from their boss over the weekend? I think you should wait until next week. Then you can thank him and check in with him, to see how he's doing while you're out." El reached behind her for something she'd hidden on a lower shelf of the buffet. "Tonight I was hoping you could help me with something I found over my lunch hour." She held up a sprig of mistletoe.

Peter leaned forward to examine it. "As a matter of fact, I'm familiar with this troublemaker, and exposure to it shouldn't be taken lightly. I should warn you, it could take all night to deal with the effects."

El slid onto his lap, delighted that he was getting into the spirit of things. "Can you help me, Doctor Burke?"

"What are your symptoms?"

She rested her head on his shoulder. "Suddenly I'm feeling very warm."

"I noticed. Fortunately you're my only patient, because the treatment will be rigorous. We'll both be exhausted before it's over."

She shivered. "What's the treatment for mistletoe exposure?"

"You'll need to get to bed as soon as possible, but first we should go to the examination room."

"That would be the shower?"

"We've both been exposed, and there could be pollen on our clothing," Peter explained. "We'll need to get undressed and thoroughly cleaned."

"Then what?"

"That's when the treatment truly begins." Peter stood up, put an arm around El, and they walked to the staircase.

"I've heard there's mouth-to-mouth resuscitation involved," she suggested.

"We should practice." Peter kissed her. "Not bad. Personally, I think it works better when the subject is lying down."

"Then we should try that, too. In the name of science."

"I'm a big fan of the scientific method. I want to conduct extensive tests."

El giggled.

 _A/N: It's fun to write Peter and El together. I like the perspective and advice El offers, and how their relationship reminds Peter that there's more to life than work._

 _Agent Badillo is another of Silbrith's OCs that I've borrowed. You can see how we envision him on the Pinterest board for In the Driver's Seat._

 _The Neal-as-a-lion reference also comes from Silbrith. In her stories, one of Neal's former mentors refers to Neal as a lion cub, and that ties into the title of the story she's currently posting: Lion's Lair._

 _Tomorrow's chapter focuses on Jones helping Neal move, and that means we'll see June and Byron. Oh, and Mozzie wants to say hello, too._


	5. Scavenger Hunt

**Aloha Emporium, Manhattan, NY. December 20, 2003. Saturday morning.**

Clinton Jones stepped into the shop, expecting to be assailed by bland Christmas music and the scents of pine and cinnamon. It was a shock and a relief to hear Hawaiian music, muted by the sound of waves, and to smell exotic flowers.

"Over here!" Neal waved from a table in a small cafe space.

Jones walked by racks of brightly patterned shirts and couldn't help smiling at the cheerful chaos. He preferred order, and recognized that the chaos here was actually carefully organized to give a sense of abundance without overwhelming the senses.

"Got time for a cup of Hawaiian coffee?" Neal asked.

Jones glanced at the wall of baked goods and other foods, and the sight of the pineapple syrup had him wincing.

Neal followed his gaze. "Don't worry. That's for the shaved ice. The coffee's pure Kona."

Jones sat down. "You're not conning me, are you? Kona in New York?"

A woman placed a mug in front of him. "We have family in Hawaii, and I went to college there. We wouldn't dream of serving anything else."

The taste brought to mind blissful memories of shore leave in Honolulu. Jones didn't groan with pleasure, but it was tempting. "Do you sell this? I mean, to make at home?"

"We have one-pound bags. Do you want it gift-wrapped?"

"Yes, please. I've been telling my brother and his wife about Kona coffee for years. They're going to love it."

The woman grinned at Neal. "I like your friend."

He stage-whispered, "He told me he isn't dating anyone." Then in his normal voice he said, "Jones, this is Maggie Feng. She's single."

Maggie swatted Neal gently on the shoulder. "Stop that."

Neal shrugged. "I wonder if I should get a bag of the Kona for Henry."

Jones tried not to react. Right before the party yesterday, Peter had asked him to look into the Henry Winslow that Neal kept mentioning.

"We have plenty in stock," Maggie said.

Neal shook his head. "Nah, he'd ruin it with a mound of sugar."

"Give him some of the cookies," she suggested. "You can pick up a fresh batch right before Christmas."

"That could work." Neal stood up. "I'll be right back. I just need to grab my stuff from upstairs."

Maggie returned with the gift-wrapped Kona while Neal was gone, and Jones had to ask, "Do you know Henry?"

"Only through the stories Neal tells about him."

Before Jones could ask more, Neal walked up with a duffle bag. "Ready to get started?"

"That's all?" Jones asked. He'd expected several boxes of belongings.

"I've only been staying here a couple of weeks. Everything else is stashed with other friends."

"Thus the need for a car. Got it." But a few hours later, Jones realized he hadn't gotten it. Not at first. Being on the run from the law meant traveling light. First they stopped at the Chelsea Fencing Club for a box Neal had stashed in a locker under the alias Gary Rydell. From there they drove to a bistro for art supplies. Next they visited a building where Neal had lived under the alias Nick Halden; the superintendent there had kept a box of kitchen supplies for Neal in her own apartment. Last they headed to a place Neal called "the Temple of Thought."

"You'll need to stay in the car," Neal said at that stop. "My friend would freak out if I brought an FBI agent into what he thinks of as a sacred space."

"This friend have a problem with the law?"

"The law, the government, corporations, authority in general. He's a conspiracy theorist."

"I'm surprised you brought me here."

Neal grinned. "Well, it's actually a half-mile's walk from here. Of course it's the heaviest box, too. This is where I keep my books."

"You expect me to wait in the car?"

"I could blindfold you. He'd probably accept that."

"Not happening," Jones said.

"Didn't think so." Neal gestured down the street, to where someone was already eyeing the car. "If you want to keep your hubcaps, not to mention the car, your best bet is to stay here and look menacing."

Jones put the full force of his military training into his frown.

"Impressive," Neal said. "Now say, 'I'll be back.'"

"Like the Terminator?"

Neal grinned. "Exactly."

"Stupid thing to say, since I'm the one staying with the car. Get out of here."

Neal gave a mocking salute and fetched the final box.

On the drive to Neal's new place, Jones said, "That felt more like a scavenger hunt than a move."

"As my friend at the Temple of Thought would say, 'Life is more manageable when thought of as a scavenger hunt as opposed to a surprise party.'"

Jones chuckled. "Jimmy Buffet."

Neal raised a brow. "My friend might decide to make an exception for you."

"Does that mean…" Jones trailed off. "This… This is a mansion."

"Yeah. You researched the Ellingtons, remember. You told me they're loaded."

Jones pulled into an open parking spot. "But there aren't stand-alone mansions in Manhattan." He gestured toward the skyscrapers that surrounded them.

"It's the only one left," Neal said. "Nearly a century old."

"We just transitioned from scavenger hunt to surprise party."

"Welcome to my life." Neal opened the passenger door and climbed out of the SUV.

Jones walked around to open the back and picked up a couple of boxes. "What d'you mean?"

"I was looking to escape the FBI, not work for them." Neal saw a break in traffic and ran across the street with his duffle bag and a box.

Jones jogged after him. A maid opened the door to the mansion, and then it was up four flights of stairs to drop off the first load of Neal's stuff. One more round trip and they were done.

Neal was reluctant to open the boxes in front of Jones, and looked in the refrigerator sheepishly. "I would offer you lunch, or at least a drink, but the cupboard is literally bare. I should have asked you to stop at a grocery on our way here."

"Don't worry about it. I'm not…" Jones paused when he heard footsteps in the hallway leading to the loft.

A moment later June stood in the open doorway. "Welcome home, Neal. It's good to see you again, Clinton." She shook their hands. "My chef is preparing lunch. I hope you'll join us. He wants to ask about your food preferences, Neal."

She wouldn't take _no_ for an answer, and they followed her to a formal dining room on the first floor. Byron was already at the table in his wheelchair, talking to a man with a soft Haitian accent who wore a chef's apron. The chef stood and introduced himself as Emil, then brought such a variety of items from the kitchen that the only word that seemed an appropriate description was _cornucopia_.

Jones nearly objected, wanting to say it was too much for his relatively minor effort in helping Neal move, but Byron and June were so obviously happy to have guests that he simply thanked them for the food and dug in.

"Will you be with us on Christmas?" Emil asked Neal.

He shook his head. "I'm catching a flight to D.C. right after I leave work on the 24th."

"Tell me your holiday favorites," the chef insisted. "I can make them before you leave."

For a moment Neal looked reluctant. He seemed to measure what he was willing to share, and finally said, "I remember making shortbread cookies with my mom. And profiteroles."

"Profiteroles, yes. That would be good to practice." Emil's smile lit up his whole face. "I'm planning to start a catering business. I welcome any excuse to make something beautiful and to photograph it. Someday I'll post the pictures on a website."

And with that, Neal went from guarded to open. He chatted about the tradition of portraying food in art, and his favorite still-life paintings. He mentioned someone named Jacques, who apparently owned the bistro where Neal had stashed his art supplies, and then described favorite meals he'd had in his travels abroad.

Neal and Emil asked Byron's opinions, and Jones caught a look of sadness on June's face. It hit him, suddenly, that Emil was using the conversation to fish for ideas for what would be Byron's last Christmas.

It also hit him that the mansion was nearly devoid of holiday decor. All he'd seen was a spruce tree, and it wasn't decorated. Putting together the evidence, Jones concluded that the lack of decor was caused by two factors. First, Byron couldn't stand up for long, and their normal decorating routine likely depended on him reaching the high spots. Second, they were both exhausted by dealing with his illness. They had other priorities, and Jones fully understood.

However, he wondered if June would look back at her husband's final Christmas with regret in years to come. He'd lost friends in the Navy whose families subsequently obsessed about things they hadn't done with or for their loved one. Often they tossed out reason and logic in the process. Someday June might ignore the challenges they'd faced and blame herself for not having provided enough holiday cheer for her husband.

Wanting to help, but expecting resistance, Jones eased into it. He waited until they were finishing dessert and said, "I don't feel like I deserved such an amazing meal. The move was a lot easier than I expected. I definitely consumed more calories than I worked off." He looked at June. "Do you have any heavy lifting I could do while I'm here?"

"That's kind of you to offer."

"The thing is, when we walked through the music room, I noticed the pathway's kind of tight for a wheelchair with that Christmas tree in the middle of the room. If you point to where you want things to go, Neal and I can move stuff around for you."

Neal looked at the music room, and then at Byron's wheelchair. "I have to confess, I've been wanting to get my hands on that beautiful piano. I'm happy to start with moving it."

After they moved the piano and some chairs, Jones casually offered to fetch the ornaments for the tree from wherever they were stored. "I didn't put up a tree myself this year," he said before June could protest. "Didn't seem worth it, since I'm spending the holidays with my brother's family. I didn't think I'd miss it, but turns out I'm more nostalgic than I realized." He smiled gently. "It's not like I have anything planned this afternoon. I honestly didn't expect Neal's move to go so fast."

Several trips to the attic followed. June pointed out which boxes to bring downstairs, although they were clearly marked so that wasn't really necessary. Emil, Neal, and Jones did the work while June and Byron supervised. The couple shared memories of past holidays, including a Christmas early in their marriage when they'd been apart because Byron was in prison. They were matter-of-fact about it, and how it had influenced Byron's choices when he was released.

"That's when I decided to give up the life," Byron explained. "Backslid a few times. It wasn't easy, but it was the right thing to do. My girls needed their father."

A few hours later the entryway, music room, and dining room had been transformed into a wonderland of green, blue, purple, silver, and gold decorations.

Neal looked a bit out of his element at first, as if hanging garlands and glittering snowflakes from the ceiling wasn't something he'd done before. Fortunately he took orders well and had absolutely no fear of heights.

The last step was stacking the empty boxes together for a trip back up to the attic. When they returned to the main level, Byron had gone to his room to take a nap, and June hugged each of them. "Thank you," she said to Jones, her voice husky with tears. "You've dissolved all my doubts about whether I could trust an FBI agent."

"It was my pleasure. Byron's a great guy, and I'm happy to help anytime you need. Just let me know when you want me to come by to take everything back down again. I'm staying in town for the holidays, so I'll be available whenever's convenient for you."

"I can't thank you enough."

"Let me eat some of Emil's cooking again, and we'll call it even."

 **Neal's loft, Manhattan, NY. Saturday evening.**

Emil suggested an excellent shop where Neal could pick up groceries, including a few bottles of wine, of course. It was a pleasure to fix his first meal in the loft, and he thought the Chicken Kiev turned out well. Now that he had the hang of the appliances, he looked forward to preparing more ambitious meals.

Tonight was too cold to eat on the balcony, but he enjoyed the view of the New York skyline from the warmth of his kitchen, and imagined dining al fresco in the spring, assuming he stayed here that long. You never knew what twists fate had in mind.

The trill of his phone brought him back to the here and now. "Mozz," he answered, recognizing the number. "How are things in Quebec?"

"Cold and beautiful," Mozzie said. He'd traveled there on Friday and would stay for a week, masterminding a heist. "You should join us."

"Not this again, Mozz. I told you, I want the FBI deal to work out, and I can't risk taking side jobs."

"Such a waste of your talents. At least tell me you're gathering information about how they work, for when you come to your senses."

"I've learned a lot, and there's more training I'm supposed to take next week."

"Classroom training or online?"

"Online."

"Exercise caution. There could be subliminal messages embedded in the videos. This could be the first step toward mind control. You need to pause the videos every five minutes — three would be better — and clear your mind with at least twenty seconds of stretching and meditation. If you feel any urges to rat out your friends or to sublimate your personality, stop the video and call me. I'm sure I can hack their system to make it look like you completed the training and you can fool them into believing the indoctrination was successful."

"I'll be careful," Neal said.

"Speaking of careful, is the Temple of Thought compromised?"

The Temple of Thought was the name of Mozzie's favorite safe house, and when Mozz was away he monitored it through cameras and other means. The moment Neal entered the building, Mozzie would have received a notification, and would have watched real time if possible, or watched the video later. Neal had made a point of waving to one of the cameras and giving a pre-designated safe signal. "I made sure no one followed me," Neal promised.

"You took your box of books, but not your bottles of wine."

"It was a tough choice, but I thought it was wisest to make one trip, so my companion would be less tempted to get out of his car and follow me."

"Indeed. However, it would seem I overlooked an important element in the reading I recommended."

"Terry Pratchett. According to Billy, there's a turtle I could learn from in the stories. I take it you're familiar with them?"

Mozzie let out a gusty sigh. "You need to pay more attention to the best-seller lists, Neal. Terry Pratchett is a publishing icon in the U.K., and his works provide a biting satire of government and society."

Neal frowned. "Maggie said they were fantasy novels."

"Epic fantasies have long been a vehicle for commentary on society. _The Lord of the Rings_ , for instance — "

"Please," Neal interrupted, because he knew this lecture could go on all night, "can we stick to the turtle?"

"The turtle is the Great A'Tuin."

Half an hour later, Neal knew that the novels were about a flat world known as Discworld, which traveled through space on the backs of four elephants, who stood on the back of a giant turtle. The lessons to be gained from the turtle included sharing the load with a reliable crew, patience in reaching its destination, and most importantly (according to Mozzie) not bowing to pressures to conform to a boring, conventional view of what is normal or accepted as a mode of transporting worlds through space.

"Does it have a choice?" Neal wondered. "Or is it just doing what it was born to do?"

"An interesting question. Are you asking in light of your own situation?"

"Yeah. When I look at the big picture, at everything that led Peter and me to be at the same place at the same time, it feels like we were destined to meet and make this deal. I told Tricia it was fate, and she doesn't agree. She sees a logical set of steps following to a natural conclusion. To me, that sounds like another way of describing fate."

"Fate implies a greater power at work, whereas her alternate theory removes that element and instead relies on logic. And yet both preclude free will, if one can assume that you're driven by logic rather than desire." The line went silent.

"Mozz, are you still there?"

"Sorry, I was lost in thought, imagining John Calvin debating on the side of predestination versus Spock on the side of logic. Fascinating. If you think about it, the concept of fate brings the implication of an entity of some sort manipulating circumstances to bring about a specific result, and is at heart a universal conspiracy theory."

"Which appeals to you."

"Naturally, and yet I also believe that awareness of the conspiracies around me is what makes me the master of my own fate. It's an interesting conundrum. Going back to the topic of epic fantasies, take the story of Beowulf. In the classic theme of heroes versus monsters, are they destined to clash? Do they logically encounter each other because by definition heroes will try to stop monsters? Can either of them even perceive other options, such as joining forces?"

"Is that what I did?" Neal asked. "Take an alternate path?"

"Certainly it isn't the normal course of events in a cops versus robbers story. Does that mean you defied fate, or that you followed a natural, logical path given your circumstances? I must ponder this further."

"With wine," Neal said.

"Naturally. In vino veritas."

"I'll leave you to seek your truth, then."

 _A/N: I wanted to keep in mind those who don't celebrate Christmas and/or find it overwhelming, with Jones' relief at the lack of a holiday theme at the start of the chapter._

 _I had fun with canon references in this chapter, including Neal's aliases. You may remember in the first season Neal jokingly told Peter to say, "I'll be back." In canon it was Mozzie who used the "surprise party" quote in a conversation with Peter._


	6. Tea and Trumpets

**Neal's loft, Manhattan, NY. December 21, 2003. Sunday morning.**

The day had been filled with so much mental stimulation that his mind refused to shut down and sleep. As a result, he was craving hot tea around 2am. There was a ritual to making a perfect cup of tea that he found calming. Often he didn't even drink it; by the time it was prepared, he simply breathed the fragrant steam and relaxed.

Tonight, he faced a quandary, because he hadn't purchased tea when he went grocery shopping. However, there was a fully stocked kitchen on the first floor, just waiting to be plundered. He chuckled, reminded of his conversation with Mozz about Beowulf, which had to be the reason he'd thought the word _plundered_. He should have asked if Mozz thought they were on the side of Beowulf or Grendel.

Neal was wearing all black. Did that associate him with the bad guys? Personally, he still thought of his dark clothing as cat-burglar attire. His days of thefts were officially behind him, but it wouldn't hurt to practice his skills by going downstairs to look for tea. He was certain he could pull it off without waking June or Byron.

By habit, he'd made note of which stairs creaked when he'd traipsed up and down them throughout the day, and navigated now them in silence. He had excellent night vision and didn't need more than the light filtering through the windows and hallways to find his way to the kitchen.

The kitchen itself was the trickiest part to navigate, it was massive, dark, and unknown — Neal had never entered the room and didn't know his way around. Having made it this far, it should be safe to switch on the lights. Before he could reach for them, he heard a sound that was barely enough warning to squint his eyes so he wasn't blinded when the lights came on. "I'd never have known you were there if it weren't for the squeaky wheel," Neal said.

"I need to oil it," Byron said. "Or maybe it isn't worth the trouble. I'm losing my edge."

"Not as far as I could tell. I had no idea you were there until the last second. I guess I'm not as stealthy as I thought."

"If I hadn't been looking out the door of my room, I'd never have noticed you going by." Byron shook his head. "June would tell me to take one of the pills that's supposed to help me sleep, but I don't have many good days left. I want to be awake and doing things while I still can."

"I'm having a bout of insomnia myself. I thought making a cup of tea would help."

"Left-hand side. Upper cabinet, next to the sink."

Neal opened the cabinet and found several varieties. "Oolong. Do you want some?"

"Why not?" Byron wheeled over to a butcher-block table at the end of the kitchen island. The room was long but narrow, with quartz countertops that reminded Neal of glaciers — white with an underlying blue tone. The appliances were stainless steel, and the cabinets were the same rich brown as the paneling throughout the house.

Neal filled a kettle with water and turned on the stove. He leaned against the island and said, "That music room isn't just for looks. I could tell when we were moving them around that the instruments are well-loved. Which ones do you play?"

"We bought the piano for our daughters when they took lessons. I can noodle around on it, but the trumpet's my baby. When I met June, I was part of a jazz band playing in a club, and she filled in for our usual singer. _Dream a Little Dream of Me_. That's the first song we performed together."

June stepped into the room, wearing a royal blue velour robe and slippers. "It was the first song we danced to after our wedding, too."

"I hope we didn't wake you," Neal said.

"I couldn't sleep, and thought I'd check on Byron." She sat on a chair beside the kitchen table. " _Stormy Weather_ was a favorite, too."

"We used that one as a signal," Byron said. "Started humming it during a job if we saw a cop or some other danger, to warn everyone in the crew to scramble." He shook his head. "Where did the time go? I haven't picked up my trumpet since…"

June put an arm around him.

"Since I got sick," he finished. "Damn disease keeps taking away my life, and I'm tired of letting it. Junebug, let's go listen to some live jazz after Christmas."

She looked surprised.

"I know," Byron said. "I hate running into our old friends and having to explain about the wheelchair, but that's making me house-bound and stir crazy. Let's go out while we can."

The kettle whistled and Neal took it off the burner. "Do you want tea, June? I'm making oolong."

Half an hour later, they were laughing over one of Byron's stories when he said, "Why don't you fetch me that trumpet, Neal? I want to give it a proper farewell."

They all went into the music room, and Neal carried the trumpet from where it was stored on a shelf with sheet music. "Is this the one you played in the clubs?" he asked.

"That's right." Byron took the trumpet out of its case and inspected it. Then he held it to his lips and played a few notes. "Not bad. I should have done this sooner, but let's see what I can still do."

"What'll it be?" Neal asked.

"A Christmas tune, in honor of our decorations. I heard you singing this one at the hospital. Will you join in?"

"Of course."

Byron played "O, Holy Night." Neal sang along, and so did June. Byron's notes were strong and true, but after one verse he had to stop. He was breathing heavily. "Damn it. Not that long ago… I could have played the whole song. I hate this."

Neal glanced at June, wondering if he should leave or apologize for encouraging Byron to tell stories about his jazz days. The man was so frustrated now.

June put her hand over Byron's. "I'm glad you played it again, even for a little bit."

Byron was still catching his breath, and Neal said, "I didn't play that song the day we met."

"We heard you a few days earlier," June explained. "We slipped into the room after you started, and you were surrounded by children."

"I remember. I was helping a friend who delivers flowers to the hospital and met a young patient. She's a kindred spirit and an escape artist, like me. I noticed her peeking out of a closet and used a song to bring her out of hiding."

Byron's breathing was closer to normal and he put the instrument back in its case. He held it out to Neal. "Find a new home for it. I can't stand thinking of this old friend sitting around gathering dust when I'm gone."

June took a sharp breath.

"You know I'm not going to play it again. I want it to go to someone who'll use it."

"I'll check around," Neal promised.

Tears gathered in Byron's eyes, and as Neal walked up the first flight of stairs he heard the man sobbing. His voice barely carried to Neal's ears. "It's not fair," he said.

Neal couldn't hear June's response, but she sounded sad, too.

 **Neal's loft, Manhattan, NY. Sunday morning.**

Neal woke up with a gasp. He sat up and ran his hands through his hair.

Not the most restful first night in his new loft, but at least he hadn't experienced one of his nightmares. This had been mild, a mere bad dream.

It was nearly 10am, and he decided to fix breakfast. Being up and about would help him shake the dream.

Or it should. But making an omelet brought back memories of his mom. She used to linger over breakfast, and had been the one to show him the proper method to fold an omelet. That had been back when he was in elementary school, during a dry period. By the time he'd reached sixth grade, she was drinking again.

He wasn't going to think about it, he told himself. He sat down with a glass of orange juice and the omelet, intent on thinking about something else. Byron. The man was a treasure trove of stories, and Neal looked forward to hearing more. What a life the man had lived — the heists, the cons, the music, the arrests, and then changing his direction to focus on life with his family. It didn't seem like he had any regrets, other than getting sick, and that was beyond his control.

 _Alcoholism is a disease._

Neal tried to shut out the voice in his head. Ellen had repeated the mantra, every time his mom went into rehab. It was a disease, Ellen explained, and his mom was seeking treatment.

After being away for six years, he'd returned to St. Louis and talked to Ellen earlier this month. She'd told him his mom finally found a treatment that worked. She'd been dry for years, apparently.

This morning's dream had been based on a memory. In sixth grade, he'd finally participated in his school's production of _A Christmas Carol._ His mom had taken the afternoon off to attend. Even though she'd started drinking again before Thanksgiving, she'd been pretty good about holding off until she got home from work, which meant she usually wasn't driving impaired, but that day… She must have knocked back a few drinks as soon as she left work, probably in lieu of eating lunch. Neal didn't smell the alcohol on her, so she'd been smart enough to hide that, at least, before going to his school. But when she drove them back home after the play, it became clear that her reflexes and concentration weren't what they should be. She barely avoided slamming into another car.

That's when Neal realized it was getting bad again.

Instead of fixing the promised celebratory dinner after the play, his mom slumped on the sofa, turned on the TV, and fell asleep. Neal called Ellen, who said she'd make sure Meredith got help. Days later, Meredith was in her second round of rehab, and Neal was staying with Ellen. The details came back to him with startling clarity.

 _It wasn't until his second night of staying at Ellen's house that she remembered. "Danny, your play!" she said. "I'm so sorry. I wanted to ask all about it, and then everything…" she waved her hands rather than mention his mother's drinking. "How did it go?"_

 _Danny shrugged. "Okay. I mean, I didn't forget any lines."_

 _Ellen smiled at the reminder he'd chosen a part that famously had no lines. "I thought you wanted to be the Ghost of Christmas Past. How'd you end up being the Ghost of Christmas Future?"_

 _"_ _That's when I was a little kid," Danny said. "I thought it would be cool to see the past, since Mom would never talk about it. You know, like to see my dad and stuff."_

 _Ellen nodded._

 _"_ _And then…" Danny's heart raced, the way it always did when the subject of his abduction came up. His mind had worked hard to put the memories behind a wall, but the feelings of terror sometimes slipped out. "It didn't seem so cool anymore. I'd rather know what's going to happen next." If he'd known Vance wanted to kill him, was planning to abduct him, was there anything he could have done to avoid it?_

 _"_ _You're a lot like your mom."_

 _Danny stared at her, shocked. "Am I going to be an alcoholic, too?"_

 _Ellen took his hand. "I didn't mean that. Don't worry about that, Danny. If you have issues with alcohol we'll get you help sooner and it won't be as bad as it is with your mom. I promise." She took a breath. "I meant the way she doesn't like to think about the past."_

 _"_ _Because my dad died?"_

 _Ellen paused. "Because of your dad, yes."_

In the present, Neal wondered if Ellen had been tempted to tell him the truth then. In the end it had been Ellen, and not his mother, who'd told him James wasn't dead.

Rarely did Neal feel he had much in common with his mother, but he had to admit Ellen was right about their mutual avoidance of the past. Learning her husband had murdered someone, that she'd have to leave behind her life and friends and family to stay safe from his enemies — it was a trauma his mother had hidden, and it took a toll on her.

 _Like the abduction._

He silenced that thought. He wasn't going to think about it, about how the flashbacks had become more frequent, and how the wall he'd built in his mind at the age of nine was crumbling.

Unlike his mother, who'd seemed frozen in time, he'd been inspired by the Ghost of Christmas Future, the one with the ability to show Scrooge what might have been, and thus changing the course of his life.

It wasn't that different from what Peter had done, Neal realized. He'd served as a reminder of what awaited if Neal didn't change his path. The FBI was on his heels, and Peter was a formidable agent with the smarts to catch him eventually. But he'd done more than point out Neal's current trajectory, he'd also illuminated another path to consider. It wasn't an easy path, but Neal was glad for the chance and determined not to blow it.

Wanting to think about something else, Neal checked his watch and decided it was late enough to call Henry.

The "mmfff — what?" with which Henry answered the call indicated it might not have been late enough.

"Are you gonna sleep all day?" Neal asked.

"Up all night tailing someone for Win-Win, so yeah, that was the idea." Henry yawned.

Neal filled him in on the conversation with Byron. "Any thoughts on who might need a trumpet?"

"Not offhand, but I know who could point you in the right direction. There's a guy I've been meaning to send you to. The name's Randy Weston. He owns a music shop in your new stomping grounds. Hold on a sec." There was a sound of footsteps and a drawer opening. "Yeah. Here's the address."

Neal wrote it down. "Thanks. I wish you'd been here last night. I like to think I'm good with people — a con artist has to be, right? — but I had no idea what to do for Byron."

"You've heard about the stages of grief?"

"Yeah, that's pretty common knowledge."

"The thing is, most people think it's describing what people go through when someone close to them dies. I mean, it does apply, but the psychologists who originally wrote about the stages were describing what someone goes through when they learn they're dying. You gotta let Byron work through those stages. It's normal. And the stages aren't something a person just powers through and never revisits. Often people go through them in cycles. Something happens and it triggers the anger cycle again."

"Like realizing he can't play the trumpet the way he used to."

"Exactly. That was an iteration taking him back to anger and through acceptance, knowing he won't play the trumpet again and wanting to give it a new home. So, you don't go around trying to trigger the cycles for him, you know? But you don't try to shut him down when it happens, either. Let him work through it, and be patient. Listen if he wants. Give him privacy if he wants."

"Got it. Thanks."

"Sure. Any more dreams about being a passenger in a car?"

Neal froze.

"Must have been a doozy," Henry said.

"Different driver this time," Neal said. "Nearly crashed."

"Feeling even more out of control. Interesting. I wonder what we can do to put you in the driver's seat."

"Are any of us really in the driver's seat?"

"Have you been talking to Mozzie again?"

Neal smiled. "Yeah. We were talking about fate, you know, whether I chose to work for the FBI or was fated to." There was a beep in the background. "Tell me you're not nuking coffee. Don't you have a coffee maker?"

"I'm desperate for caffeine," Henry said. "Anyway, back to your question, I'm on the side of making your own path."

"Interesting, given you're following what your dad thinks is your destiny, working in the family business."

"Don't worry about that. I have a plan."

"You keep saying that," Neal complained. "When are you going to tell me about it?"

"When you've had more time to see how things are going at the FBI. That could change the plan."

"So, you're master of your own fate, and mine too?"

"You don't have to follow my plan."

"Yeah, right."

"According to my dad, your fate is to spend the rest of your life in prison as a hardened criminal. Believe me, my plan is better than fate, for both of us."

"One of your plans got me arrested in Las Vegas," Neal reminded him.

"I've learned a lot more finesse," Henry promised.

Neal thought back a few years. He'd run away from home when he was almost eighteen, and a twenty-year-old Henry had found him and saved his life. They'd traveled together on a multi-year road trip, getting by with cons, petty thefts, and playing music. A self-styled big brother, Henry had taken it on himself to teach Neal how to get by on his own. He'd also preferred to be the driver most of the time. Neal chuckled.

"What?"

"I'm thinking of all the times we squabbled over the radio when we were traveling together, slapping each other's hands away from the controls. It's just… saying you have 'more finesse,' it implies you ever had any. Doubtful."

"Fine." Henry huffed out a breath. "I'm less of a bull in a china shop."

"But still bull-headed."

"At Win-Win we call that _leadership_."

They both laughed, but despite his kidding, Neal knew the truth. Henry had a lot of finesse. He'd been a psychology major before dropping out of college, and eventually had earned an advanced degree. He might be stubborn about things and pretend to be straightforward in his goals, but he combined his skills at chess and poker to manipulate things the way he wanted. As a poker player, he could read the room and figure out what his opponents were up to. As a chess player, he planned a dozen moves ahead, with multiple contingencies. If he had a weakness, it was an unwillingness to share his plans with his partners, instead preferring a grand reveal when he felt the moment was right.

"You'll let me know if you need help, right?" Neal asked. "If things don't work out at Win-Win, you don't have to deal with the fallout alone."

"I'll be fine." Henry paused, probably drinking instant coffee. "You didn't say who was driving in your dream this time."

"Not you."

"Too bad. At least you'd have been in good hands."

 _A/N: Randy Weston appears as a character in Caffrey Flashback._

 _I'm not a psychology expert. A few years ago, I read that the Kubler-Ross model (a.k.a the five stages of grief) describes what a person goes through when they learn they are dying, rather than what we experience when a loved one dies. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross and David Kessler also wrote a book named On Grief and Grieving, which I found helpful after losing my mother._

 _On to happier topics… In the next chapter Neal remembers the first Christmas after he ran away from home, and we hear from Peter again._


	7. Doughnuts

**Ellington mansion, Manhattan, NY. December 22, 2003. Monday evening.**

The lights in the music room were on when Neal returned from work. After a day spent in online training and case files, he looked forward to some human interaction.

Byron sat in his wheelchair beside the Christmas tree. He touched various ornaments, sometimes removing one to hold for a moment before returning it to the tree.

"Anything you want me to reach for you?" Neal asked.

"The car," Byron pointed to a classic car in silver, with Santa at the wheel.

It was high enough that Neal had to stretch. "Here you go." He handed it to Byron.

"This was from an old friend. He'd been the wheelman for a few jobs. Great driver, terrible liar. You knew if he got caught, he'd spill everything, so we made sure not to tell him the full plan."

"Like where you hid the goods?"

Byron chuckled. "That's right. He realized soon enough he wasn't cut out for the life. Loved cars, though. He went to work for a dealership, and the customers appreciated how honest he was. Owns the place now; I bought my Jaguar from him." He handed the ornament back to Neal, who returned it to its spot. "I wanted to apologize for the other night."

Neal stepped away from the tree. "What for?"

"Getting all upset like that, about the trumpet."

"You're used to being strong for your family." Neal sat on a chair near Byron. "You don't have to be."

"Because you're not family?"

"Well, there's that. You don't need to impress me. But from everything I've heard, your family inherited your strength. The thing is…" He paused to find better words, and then decided just to go for it. "Your family and me, we have more time than you do. You're the one who needs to process things now. If that means railing at fate or whatever, then go for it. Don't worry about upsetting us. We can come to terms with everything later."

"I didn't take you for a philosopher."

"I'm not. My best friend has a masters degree in psychology. I talked to him yesterday and he made some good points. Helped me understand your point of view."

"Wish I could have met him," Byron said.

"You will," Neal predicted. "I'll catch up with him after Christmas, and he's curious to hear about my new place and landlords. He'll be fascinated by my stories, and he won't be able to resist visiting to see things for himself. If he holds out until mid-January I'll be surprised."

"Tell me about him."

"Are you sure?" Part of the deal with June and Byron was that Neal would listen to Byron, giving the man the pleasure of sharing his experiences with someone who hadn't heard the stories before.

"There are times I get tired of being in my own head. It'll be a relief to think about someone else."

Neal thought back, considering what would make the best story. "Henry told me his first car was an Alfa Romeo. A convertible, I think. Cute car, tiny trunk. He drove it through his third year of college, and then met someone in the music industry who was willing to give him a start. Henry's a fantastic guitarist and a decent singer, and he started doing gigs."

"Only music?"

"Let's just say he had a lot in common with you in your bachelor days."

Byron smiled.

"The Alfa wasn't practical, so he traded it in. He brought his guitar case to a used car lot, and kept opening trunks until he found one that could hold the case with space left over. It was a sedan. Beige, you know, the color dealers call champagne." Neal paused. "He didn't want to be hassled by salespeople, so he did this at night. Hotwired the car to take it for a test drive. Then he returned the next day to buy it."

"I like him already," Byron said.

"That was a few months before we started working together, so I'm taking his word on the story. I'm inclined to believe him, though. It sounds exactly like something he'd do. Skipping forward to when I joined the picture, we became a team and ran a lot of cons claiming to be brothers. In fact, he's still like a big brother to me: bossy and protective. Since it was his car, most of the time he did the driving. Every once in a while, like if he was tired, he'd let me drive."

"A safe driver, then."

"Yeah, he didn't take a lot of risks, like driving when he was drowsy. If we needed to drive through the night to get someplace, we took turns behind the wheel. He also had an annoying eye for detail. Noticed I didn't like driving in slick conditions." Neal shrugged. He didn't want to go into how the car Ellen helped him buy ended up in a lake because he was driving too fast on a rainy night. "When I was learning to drive, we had a couple of mild winters and I'd never driven on ice. So of course Henry decided he should teach me."

 _Henry had been checking the weather reports incessantly, and on December 23 announced they needed to head north. They reached his destination around noon on Christmas Eve. They ate lunch, then stopped at a video store to load up on favorite movies and snacks. Their last stop was at a restaurant selling holiday meals with all the trimmings to go; it was enough food to last them three days, and all they had to do was heat it._

 _It was their first Christmas together since teaming up, and as usual, Henry had a plan that he wasn't going to share. All he'd said was that they wouldn't bother with wrapping packages. By now Neal knew that Henry preferred experiences to gifts, so the question was what kind of experience he had in mind now._

 _The road they took when they finished their shopping wasn't steep, but they were steadily gaining elevation during the two-hour drive, and the rain they'd experienced in town turned to snow. And sleet. Neal gritted his teeth but didn't say anything. He didn't want to distract Henry, who was showing a mastery of driving in winter conditions._

 _"_ _Okay, close your eyes," Henry said._

 _Neal grumbled, but he did it._

 _A couple of minutes later the car stopped. Henry turned off the engine and said, "Take a look!"_

 _They were parked in front of a log cabin draped in snow. Based on the footprints around them, the snow had to be more than six inches deep. "Are we staying here?" Neal asked._

 _"_ _Sort of. We check in here, then they'll take us to our cabin on a snowmobile." Henry hopped out of the car. "C'mon, kiddo!"_

 _There were a total of twelve cabins, but only four were occupied for the holidays. The manager helped Neal and Henry load their stuff into a trailer that was attached to a snowmobile, and then took them to a cabin tucked into the woods next to a small lake. The cabin rental included a loan of snow boots in their size, so they could explore without a snowmobile of their own._

 _A fire was already burning, and a stack of firewood was ready so they could keep the fire going for days. They put the food in the fridge and then Henry opened the curtains to reveal another perk of the cabin — an outdoor Christmas tree. One of the many fir trees growing around their cabin was decorated in holiday colors. A booklet in the cabin explained that the ornaments were either edible or covered with seeds. Therefore the tree would often be visited by wildlife, making it a truly living display._

 _Neal assumed they'd spend the entire holiday in a combination of hanging out in the cabin and walking the trails, but he learned the next afternoon that Henry had something else in mind. "Perfect," he said as they went outside for what Neal assumed was going to be another walk._

 _"_ _Are you kidding?" Neal held on to the railing around the porch. The warm sunlight had melted the top layer of snow, giving them a slushy, slippery path._

 _"_ _This is exactly what I wanted. I'm going to teach you how to drive in icy conditions."_

 _They made their way cautiously back to the parking lot, sometimes grasping trees along the way to keep from falling down. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" Neal asked when they finally reached the car._

 _"_ _Flat parking lot, nearly empty. It doesn't get better than this," Henry insisted. He started out in the driver's seat, and that first part of the instruction went well. Neal watched and listened as Henry talked through how he pulled out of the parking spot and maneuvered to the far side of the lot._

 _Then they switched places. After spinning the tires a few times, Neal finally got the car moving, creeping forward in the direction he wanted._

 _As the car started to slide, Henry was calling out directions too fast for Neal to follow. He got the car back under control more by luck than by paying attention to a garble of instructions. He made it a few more feet before the car slid again._

 _Once more Henry was calling out instructions, some of which seemed contradictory, and finally said, "No, like this," and grabbed the wheel._

 _The car went into a spin, finally stopping when the front end slammed into a post at the edge of the parking lot. The airbags deployed, and Henry stopped yelling because the breath was knocked out of him. "You suck as a driving instructor," Neal gasped._

 _Henry took a shaky breath. "Maybe." He pushed away the airbag. "You okay?"_

 _"_ _Yeah. You?"_

 _"_ _I think so." Henry opened the passenger door and staggered out._

 _Neal took a deep breath and exited the car, to see Henry staring at the tire tracks in the snow._

 _"_ _I never want to do that again," Henry said. "But…" he gestured at the tracks. "I mean, I've never seen such perfect doughnuts. That was awesome."_

 _"_ _Not doing it again," Neal said._

 _"_ _Right. One totaled car is enough."_

 _Neal looked at the car, seeing the engine compartment crumpled against the post. "We'll need a tow truck."_

 _"_ _I wonder if I could use this to fake my death."_

 _"_ _You want your family to think you died on Christmas?"_

 _"_ _I couldn't do that to them," Henry agreed. "But we'll pay cash for the car we get to replace this. Dad won't know the VIN or license plate number. That'll make it easier to ditch the goon he has tracking us." He picked up a handful of snow and slapped it onto Neal's face._

 _"_ _What?" Neal wiped most of it off. "Merry Christmas to you, too."_

 _"_ _You've got a couple of black eyes, kiddo. Need to ice 'em down."_

 _The airbags, Neal realized, had bruised them both. He scooped up more snow. "Yeah, let me return the favor."_

 _Henry ran back toward the cabin, and this time they did slip and fall a few times on their way. Finally they collapsed in front of the cabin's fireplace. "We should take off the boots," Henry said, still panting. "Before we're too stiff."_

 _"_ _We're going to be sore tomorrow, aren't we?"_

 _"_ _Yeah." Henry grunted as he reached toward his feet and slid off the first boot. "A soak in that hot tub on the back porch might help." He pulled off the second boot. "Gimme your feet."_

 _Neal obliged and let Henry pull off his boots. "Hot tub sounds amazing."_

Retelling the story, Neal appreciated again how clever and sneaky Henry was. His goal all along was to get a different car, and letting Neal practice driving in icy conditions was a bonus. He'd watched the weather for someplace that would have snow and ice. He'd even picked their cabin with the hot tubs in mind, to help them recover if they destroyed the car. If Neal hadn't totaled it, Henry simply would have traded it in.

"Did he let you drive the replacement car?" Byron asked.

"Yeah, but not on icy roads."

 **El's parents' home, Illinois. Tuesday morning.**

Peter sat up in the guest bed and stretched.

Elizabeth stirred beside him. "Sleep well?"

"Yeah. Odd dream, though. I was back in Albany, and Dad was teaching me how to drive. I haven't thought about that in ages."

El sat up and leaned against him. "Spend a day talking to a psychiatrist, and your psyche can go a little wild."

Peter chuckled. "You're right. I thought I had the perfect plan, distracting Alan with stories about Neal."

"Instead he decided you have an unfulfilled need to be a father."

He hugged El. "I can never thank your mother enough for interrupting before he could ask about our sex life."

She hugged him back. "I have a spa day planned with my mom and sister today."

"And your brother-in-law?"

"He's taking the kids to the mall. You're welcome to join them."

Peter shuddered at the thought.

El laughed. "I thought so. That's why I didn't mention it last night."

"You know, I think I should catch up on how things are going at work. Answer some emails, make some calls."

"Avoid a one-on-one conversation with my dad?" El stepped out of bed. "Don't worry. I checked his calendar. He's going to his office for patient appointments. Holidays are a hard time for a lot of people, so he'll be busy today and tomorrow."

"It's not that I don't like Alan." Peter stepped out of bed.

El reached up and kissed him. "I understand."

Catching up on his email after breakfast did help restore Peter's equilibrium. He was glad he'd brought his laptop along. That made it easier to imagine himself back at the office or at home.

Alan Mitchell was a decent guy. Peter had to respect that, but it was always awkward visiting his in-laws. The constant scrutiny of the psychiatrist, the sense that Alan was analyzing and judging everything Peter said, it was hard to handle, and the week had barely started.

An uncomfortable thought wriggled forward in his mind. This was how Neal felt. Every day in the office, team members watched him, followed him, judged him. No wonder the kid was itching to work cases that would get him into the field.

He remembered his father's advice. _Trust and respect._ It wasn't enough to offer those things himself, although he'd certainly try to lead by example. He needed to ensure the whole team offered trust and respect to each other. Peter made a note to work those concepts into their goals for next year.

Then he picked up his phone and dialed Neal's number.

"Peter, how's the vacation?"

"El's having a blast catching up with her family. I'm along for the ride. Is this a good time to talk?"

"Absolutely. I need a break from CJIS compliance training. What's up?"

"The good part about going on vacation is the chance to get some perspective on things. This time one of those things is you. Not that you're a thing, I mean. Obviously you're a person. A team member."

"It must have been quite a perspective to get you this flustered. Have — " There was a sharp voice in the background. "Here. Tell Hitchum it's you."

"Hitchum, this is Peter Burke. What the hell are you doing?"

"He's on his cell phone," Hitchum said. "We're not supposed to take personal calls on the job."

That was utter nonsense. "The policy is against excessive personal calls. It's been less than two minutes, and you know we all use our cell phones for work. Stop harassing Neal."

"Someone has to watch him."

"Jones is keeping an eye on Neal for me. They both know that."

The line was silent a moment. Then Neal said, "Well, that was awkward."

"I'll have Hughes talk to him. Maybe that will make more of an impression than my repeated warnings to leave you alone."

"Thanks. What did you want to tell me?"

Peter gathered his thoughts. "Being with my in-laws, it reminds me what it's like not to be in the driver's seat. We're doing what they want, when they want, and I definitely feel like an outsider. I realized that's what it's been like for you so far on the White Collar team. I called to let you know it won't always be like that. And if it ever gets to be overwhelming, let me know, or Jones or Tricia. We want you to succeed."

"I didn't think you'd get it," Neal said. "I knew you meant well, but I honestly thought you couldn't understand what it's like for me."

"It's uncomfortable," Peter said.

"Big time."

"I appreciate you sticking around. Trust me, you'll enjoy the job once we find the right cases for you."

"I'm counting on it. Thanks, Peter. It means a lot that you'd take the time to call and tell me all this."

Peter grinned. "As long as we're having a moment, how about you fill in some more blanks about Henry Winslow?"

"What's that? I think we've got a bad connection."

"Hey, you're the one who believes in fate. What if you're fated to tell me about him?"

"I don't think that's how fate works," Neal protested.

"How will we know if you don't tell me? Maybe I'm fated to hire him, too."

Neal laughed. "Henry, working with the FBI? I can't wait to hear his reaction to that."

 _A/N: The cabins where Neal and Henry spent Christmas aren't based on a real place, but I hope I find someplace like that someday. I think it would make an excellent writing retreat. The totaled car is referenced again in the final chapters of By the Book._

 _Neal's CJIS training is a real thing — something I experienced when I started my new job this summer._

 _Tomorrow I'll post the final chapter in this story._


	8. Turning a Corner

**Winston-Winslow offices, Baltimore, MD. December 23, 2003. Tuesday afternoon.**

Henry Winslow checked Win-Win's file on Neal Caffrey and noticed it had been updated today. Opening the file, Henry filtered for the latest updates: change of employment status, listing the FBI as Neal's employer and Peter Burke as his boss, and a change of address. There was even a link to the background check Henry had run on Agent Burke back in October.

He clicked on the audit trail, to confirm the new information was entered by Robert Winslow. It had only been a matter of time before Robert learned about Neal's new job and move, but there was something off about it happening this fast.

Could Robert have an informant in the FBI? Win-Win and the Feds didn't particularly get along, but maybe Robert was willing to make an exception in order to get dirt on Neal. It might be worth trying to get inside the Bureau himself, to see what was going on, and to confirm they were treating Neal fairly.

Neal's father had been a corrupt cop, and when James was caught, his wife and son went into WITSEC. From all accounts, it had been a miserable life for Neal.

Henry's father was corrupt, too, but Robert hadn't been caught and he made sure no one would believe it if Henry told the truth. Another miserable situation.

But Henry had a plan. Multiple plans, of course. Helping Neal and stopping Robert were at the top of the list, and those plans were somewhat intertwined.

First, though, he had a promise to keep. It was time to give his mom a ride to the airport. He left the office and headed over to her townhouse.

 **#**

"Do you think this rain will turn into sleet?" Noelle asked as she pulled on her seatbelt.

"Not supposed to," Henry said. "The weather shouldn't affect your flight."

"Darn."

Henry glanced at her. "You want to stay in Baltimore and spend the holidays with the Winslows?"

"No, thanks." Noelle liked her in-laws, but not enough to endure Christmas with her ex-husband.

Henry would spend Christmas Eve with his Winslow grandparents, and catch a redeye flight the next morning to join his mother for Christmas with her side of the family. His maternal grandparents were awesome, and he'd never heard his mother express dread about spending the holidays with them. "Missing David?" he asked. This would be the first Christmas since Noelle's brother had died.

"That's part of it." She turned off the radio, which had been playing Christmas carols.

That was a shock. She loved music, and Henry had fully expected that they would spend most of the drive singing along to tunes they'd enjoyed since he was a child.

"Meredith called today," Noelle announced.

Meredith Caffrey Bennett — or Deirdre Brooks as she was known now — wasn't supposed to contact people from her pre-WITSEC life, but every year around Christmas she called Noelle to wish her a happy birthday.

In theory these should be happy calls, but in Henry's experience they usually made his mother sad. Instead of two old friends catching up, it seemed to him that the calls were more about Meredith seeking advice from someone who had both a PhD in psychology and a thorough knowledge of Meredith's pre-WITSEC life.

But Noelle didn't sound sad today. She had a determined air about her.

"What did she say?"

"The Marshals told her they've located Neal."

Henry kept his eyes on the road and his voice nonchalant. "It's been what, nearly seven years?"

"Seven years in March, yes. It seems Neal needed a birth certificate for a job he'd been offered, and he reached out to the Marshals for their assistance earlier this month. It's the first time they've heard from him since he ran away. They didn't provide any other details." Noelle took a deep breath. "I want you to find him."

This threatened to throw his careful plans into disarray. "Is that what his mom said? That she wants to know where he is?"

"Next year when Meredith calls, I want to tell her that Neal's okay. She doesn't need to know his location." Noelle paused. "But I want to know. I want to talk to him myself, so I can tell her with full confidence that he's doing well."

"Listen, Mom…" Henry shook his head rather than continue.

"You found him before. When he ran away."

"That was different. It had only been a few days. The trail's cold now. It's been years."

Noelle nodded. "Of course. I'll ask your father. He has more experience with this kind of thing."

 _Over my dead body._ Henry relaxed his death grip on the steering wheel. "Robert doesn't do favors for anyone. We both know that. And you don't normally stoop to trying to manipulate me like this." They were both psychology experts. When they played mindgames with each other it was subtle, devious, and done with a sense of fun. The blunt hammer approach she'd just applied was none of the above.

"You're right. I'm sorry, sweetie. Let me start over." She sighed. "Meredith didn't sound well."

Obviously this was more than a case of the sniffles to make his mom so out of sorts. "Are we talking depressed, or insane?"

"Distant. Like… Like she's letting go of life, like she doesn't have anything left to live for."

"But she heard Neal's alive and starting a new job. That's good news, right?"

"Not good enough, apparently."

"Got it. She needs more and you want to provide it."

"There's so little I can do for her, and I'm afraid if I don't come through with something the next time she calls, she might stop calling altogether."

"I'll see what I can do." Henry checked the mirrors and switched lanes. "In return, can I get your advice for a friend of mine? He started a new job last week, and concurrent with that he's been dreaming about being a passenger in a car."

"He's having feelings of being out of control."

"Exactly. I'd like to help him feel more in control. You know, put him in the driver's seat."

"Is your friend's job in management?"

"No, just a junior member of a team in a major bureaucracy. He's never worked someplace that big before, so he's gotta be feeling like a cog in the wheel."

"In that case, putting him in the driver's seat could simply add to his pressure. He's in a supporting role, and he needs to become comfortable with that. His issue is likely learning to trust those who are in charge, or those who can help him adapt."

"Interesting."

"Did he mention anything other than the dreams?"

"Getting the job was kind of a fluke. He ran into the boss while they were both traveling, helped him out and made such a good impression that the boss made him a job offer on the spot. My friend said it felt like fate."

"Fate. Luck. Those can be terms people use because they don't feel they deserve something, whether it's good or bad."

It would be just like Neal to feel he didn't deserve this break. "That makes sense."

"There are things in life that we choose, and other things that happen to us. The trick is understanding your circumstances, and then deciding how to react. Did your friend accept this job because he wants it, or because he feels he owes a debt of gratitude to the boss for offering it to him?"

"Some of both, probably," Henry said. "So he needs to figure that out, first."

"Yes, and don't rush him." Noelle nodded when he shot a glance at her. "I know how impatient you can be. You make up your mind in an instant, but other people need more time. He probably felt rushed into accepting the offer, and then felt doubt over his decision, and then felt guilty for feeling doubt. It's common for people who make sudden career changes to feel a version of buyer's remorse."

"You're saying I have to give him time to figure out if he likes the job or not."

"That's right, sweetheart. And it's not something you can do for him." She patted his shoulder. "I know you don't like to hear that."

"We're making good time. Last chance if you want me to take a wrong exit so you'll miss your flight."

"No missed flights for me." She paused. "And you're not allowed to miss your flight, either."

"You know me too well," Henry joked.

He caught the look his mother gave him, the one that was tinged with sadness because she could tell he was keeping secrets.

 _Just a little longer, Mom._

Now Henry had to "find" Neal again, maybe even come clean about the fact he'd hadn't lost track of him seven years ago.

 **Neal's loft, Manhattan, NY. Tuesday evening.**

When Neal got home from work, the lights were off in the music room. That was the sign that Byron was sleeping, and Neal headed upstairs to his loft.

June had hung a wreath on the door to the loft, and the scent of pine, cinnamon sticks, nutmeg, and preserved orange slices with cloves greeted him as he reached the top of the stairs. There was also a box on the floor with a note from her, explaining that the box held decorations for the terrace.

 _Feel free to use them if you like_ , the note read, _but don't bother if they'll disturb you._

He opened the door and carried the box to his dining table. There were gold velveteen bows, two types of lights, and a photo inside the box showed how they had been arranged in the past. The tall, cream-colored lights that resembled pillar candles had been placed at corners of the balustrade, adorned with the bows, with the twinkling fairy lights strung between the larger lights. Undecided about whether he wanted to bother with the decorations, he turned his attention to making dinner. The spices on the wreath had whet his appetite, and he made spaghetti with a bolognese sauce that featured cloves and cinnamon.

The meal consumed, Neal was contemplating whether he should wash the dishes or refill his wine glass. The ring of his cell phone interrupted his thoughts. "What's up?" he answered when he saw the caller was Henry.

"I've been thinking about your dreams," Henry said.

"Let me guess. You think I should take charge in my waking life so I'll stop dreaming of being a passenger."

"That was my first inclination, but I've reconsidered." Henry went on to explain his thinking.

Neal had to admit that Henry's take was logical: get comfortable with the new job and new home, and learn to trust the people around him to help carry his burdens. In fact, it wasn't all that different from Mozzie's take on the turtle Billy mentioned. It made sense.

That didn't make it easy. He felt pressure to justify Peter's decision to trust him enough to hire him, and that was on top of the pressure to live up to the Ellingtons' expectations that he'd help Byron.

He knew he'd make mistakes along the way, and hoped he wouldn't let down the people who were counting on him, who were giving him these chances. He hadn't conned his way into these chances, but he hadn't really earned them, either. He was trying to earn them as he went, proving that he could eventually be worthy.

Returning his attention to the phone call, he said, "If I'm the passenger, I guess that makes Peter the driver."

"Yeah." Henry paused. "Are you sure you can trust him?"

"He's one of the good guys," Neal promised.

"We'll see. I'm going to keep an eye on him, just in case."

"Be careful. You're starting to sound like your dad. Are you sure going to work for Win-Win was a good idea?"

"Gotta fight fire with fire. Don't worry. I have a plan."

Henry always had a plan. And he was always reluctant to share it. Tonight was no exception.

After the call ended, Neal felt restless. He turned on the overhead lights on the terrace and carried the decorations outside. He found the outlets to plug in the strings of lights, and started arranging them.

As he worked, he thought back to the day Peter offered him the chance of a job at the FBI. Neal had been skittish, worried that Peter would have the majority of the power in their working relationship. It's not that Neal thought Peter intended to abuse his power… the worry was that Peter simply wouldn't understand the position Neal was in, or how difficult it would be for a confessed criminal to fit into Peter's world. Their phone call this afternoon had alleviated that fear a bit. Peter's empathy for Neal's position in the passenger seat was a good sign.

Neal untangled a string of lights, and thought back to another time he'd been in the passenger seat, nearly seven years ago.

 _The last time Neal had looked outside, there was snow on the ground and he'd been chilled, but now it felt like a heat wave. Someone had put a blanket over him, but he'd tossed it aside. He was huddled in a room in an old, abandoned warehouse. There were other teens there, too — runaways like him who weren't willing to agree to the rules of the shelter near the bus station. That shelter only took kids who wanted to be reunited with their families. One of the staff had followed him outside and told him about the warehouse. "You should see a doctor," she'd advised, and given him directions to a nearby clinic._

 _He'd gone to the clinic, but they had a zillion forms and needed proof of insurance. He couldn't provide that without telling them who his mom was, and that would lead the Marshals straight to him. So he left and climbed through the broken window in the warehouse. He was pretty sure that had been one day ago._

 _Now he leaned against a wall and tried to sleep. He couldn't sleep lying down because he was too congested. Sitting up, the cough wasn't as awful._

 _It was still bad, though. He was coughing so hard he didn't hear the guy who walked up to him. He was taken by surprise when the guy crouched beside him and got in Neal's face to take a good look at him._

 _"_ _You're Neal," the guy said. Not a question. He said it like he knew, even though Neal didn't recognize him. The guy looked too young to be a Marshal, but how else could he know Neal's name?_

 _"_ _Go 'way," Neal said, and started coughing again._

 _"_ _C'mon, kiddo," the guy said. "Let's get you out of here." He grabbed Neal's arm._

 _Neal wrenched away. He rolled toward the door and panted at the exertion._

 _The stranger held still and said, "It's okay. No one's going to hurt you. Just calm down and let me help."_

 _Neal's eyes darted toward the door, but he didn't move._

 _The guy kept his voice low and soothing. "I'm a friend. All I'm gonna do is take you to a doctor. I promise, that's all."_

 _"_ _Can't. Insurance…" That's all Neal could say before another coughing fit wracked his body._

 _"_ _I get it. Don't worry. I'll tell them you're my brother. My mom'll cover everything."_

 _The ride to the hospital and the emergency room visit were a blur. Someone said he had pneumonia, and the guy — he called himself Henry — said Neal had drowned and the doctor said something about lake water in Neal's lungs._

 _A couple of days later, Neal was released from the hospital and Henry drove him to a hotel. Neal pretty much collapsed on the bed in the hotel room and slept for hours. When he woke up, it was the middle of the night. The room was dark, but street lights provided enough of a glow through the curtains that Neal could see the outline of furniture. A lump on the floor was Henry, sound asleep and snoring softly under a couple of blankets._

 _Neal slid off the bed slowly, trying to avoid creaky springs. He made his way to the window and parted the curtains to let in more light. Then he reached into Henry's duffle bag until he found a wallet._

 _Three IDs: Henry Winslow, Shawn Hunter, and Shawn Legend. The first two looked legit._

 _A lamp flooded the room with light, and Neal had to shut his eyes against the brightness. He chastised himself for not paying attention. He should have noticed that the snoring had stopped._

 _He held up the Shawn Legend driver's license. "You should get your money back for this one. It's trash. I could make a better ID with my eyes closed."_

 _"_ _Good to know." Henry sat on the floor, leaning against the bed. "You okay?"_

 _"_ _I guess. Confused, though. I know you explained stuff when I was in the hospital…" Neal shrugged. "It didn't all stick."_

 _Henry nodded. "I'm not surprised. You had a hell of a fever, and they pumped a lot of drugs in you. I can go through it again. What do you want to know?"_

 _Neal shivered. The window wasn't well-insulated, and the wind was howling outside._

 _"_ _Why don't you get back on the bed?" Henry suggested. "Looks like you could use a blanket."_

 _Neal didn't recognize the sweatpants and shirt he was wearing. He guessed they were Henry's. They were cozy, but he was still cold. He nodded at the suggestion and climbed back into the bed, pulling the blankets around him._

 _Henry dragged a chair over, and sat with his bare feet propped up on the bed._

 _Neal started with, "How'd you find me?"_

 _"_ _Your mom calls my mom every year at Christmas. When my dad found out about it, he searched the phone records and found all of those calls to us came from St. Louis."_

 _"_ _Does he work for the phone company?"_

 _"_ _Nah. Win-Win. That's short for Winston-Winslow. It's a company my great-grandfather co-founded. Dad wants to run it someday." Henry frowned at the thought._

 _"_ _What does Win-Win do?"_

 _"_ _Controls people," Henry muttered. He waved a hand vaguely. "They know stuff, and learn stuff, and use it. It's complicated. Back then I thought it was cool. I hung out at the Win-Win office and used their resources to figure out the names you and your mom were going by. I'd check up on you. Like… I don't know. Like a guardian angel or something." He shrugged. "Not like I could do anything for you, though. And I stopped going to Win-Win after my parents got divorced."_

 _Neal felt his blood run cold. "So you saw the reports about… about the trial?" He couldn't bring himself to mention the abduction._

 _Henry busied himself pulling up a corner of the bedspread to cover his feet. "For your mom's ex-boyfriend? Yeah. I was glad to see he got the maximum sentence."_

 _"_ _Yeah." Neal waited. He suspected he'd said something about the abduction when he'd been in the hospital, and thought Henry would ask about it. When he remained silent, Neal said, "I guess if Win-Win can find protected witnesses, it's no surprise you could track me down."_

 _"_ _It started with your mom calling mine. That was a big surprise — a call in March. Your mom knows about Win-Win, and she thought they could find you after the Marshals gave up."_

 _"_ _Really? They gave up?"_

 _"_ _They underestimated you. I guess they didn't know about the fake ID."_

 _Neal had made the ID a couple of years ago, and had learned from a master of the art. His teacher had moved to Chicago recently and said Neal would be welcome to join him. At the time Neal turned him down, but had planned to take him up on the offer now. The guy had been nowhere to be found — Neal wondered if he'd been arrested — and without acquaintances or resources, Neal had gone to the runaway shelter for help. "So you knew I came to Chicago."_

 _"_ _Win-Win knew. But after that they couldn't find any trace of you. I don't want anything to do with Win-Win, but when they asked… Well, you know, Mom was anxious to find you, and I didn't mind showing Win-Win that I can do something they can't. And I wanted to help you. All that thinking of myself as a guardian angel, without being able to do anything. I liked the idea of coming to the rescue."_

 _"_ _You're twenty-one?" Neal thought Henry had said that in the hospital._

 _"_ _Nah, I just told the doctors that so they wouldn't hassle me. I'm twenty." He grinned. "And you're seventeen."_

 _Neal started to protest, and then remembered that the birthday he'd celebrated every year was a lie — part of the made-up Danny Brooks identity. In fact, he remembered they'd already had an argument about this at the hospital. Neal had insisted he was eighteen and able to make his own decisions, and Henry had delighted in revealing the truth and calling him a minor. "Not for long," Neal said. His real birthday was just over a week away. He didn't want to rehash their argument and instead pushed forward. "Win-Win sent a twenty-year-old to find me? What could you do that they couldn't?"_

 _"_ _I could pass for a teenage runaway. Literally trace your steps and experience what you did. I could… I could be you. Think like you."_

 _"_ _Right." Neal scoffed. "Other than being near my age, you've got nothing in common with me."_

 _"_ _You felt hurt and betrayed. Believe me, I've been there."_

 _Henry's expression convinced Neal it was the truth. Did that mean he could trust this wanna-be guardian angel? "So now what? You tell Win-Win where I am, and they tell the Marshals?"_

 _Henry chuckled. "Hell, no. Admit they can find someone who's in WITSEC? Not gonna happen. The Marshals are totally out of the loop on this one. I told my parents I found you. Even sent them a photo of us in your hospital room."_

 _"_ _They'll take that as proof?"_

 _"_ _You have an uncle. He's an Air Force pilot. I've seen pictures of him from when he was in college, and you look almost exactly like him. Trust me, they'll believe it's you."_

 _Neal decided to stop asking questions and cut to the chase. "I'm not going back to St. Louis."_

 _"_ _Of course not."_

 _The agreement was so matter-of-fact and unexpected that Neal stared at Henry, scrambling to decide what to say next. "But isn't that what you're supposed to do? Find me and send me home?"_

 _"_ _That's what everyone expected, but all I agreed to do was find you. You're found, and I made sure you got medical attention. I kept my part of the bargain."_

 _"_ _So that's it? You'll turn me loose tomorrow, and then what? You'll head back home with no repercussions?"_

 _"_ _Not exactly," Henry said._

With a combination of logic, charm, and psychology, Henry argued that he had an obligation to watch out for Neal a little longer, because Neal was technically still a minor. As a result, Neal joined Henry in a road trip, full of cons and petty thefts and adventures. And by the time Neal really turned eighteen, he realized that hanging out with Henry was better than anything he could manage on his own, and they became partners in crime.

As far as Henry's parents and Win-Win knew, Henry had let Neal go his own way after the hospital had released him, and that was technically true. He let Neal decide what he wanted to do. He'd also used all of his skills to persuade Neal that what he wanted was to hang out with a big brother. And now Peter had come along to fulfill a similar role, although Neal had been calling him a father figure.

Neal plugged in the lights on the terrace, and nodded in satisfaction. Then he went inside to admire his handiwork from the warmth of his loft with a glass of wine.

He had to admit that being Henry's sidekick had worked out well, for the most part.

When he fell asleep that night, he dreamed of being a passenger in a car again, but it wasn't scary this time. He was nineteen, in the car he'd helped Henry pick out to replace the one they'd totaled. Henry was driving, of course. Neal was tired, and fell asleep in the passenger seat. In the dream he woke up and asked, "Are we there yet?"

The dream Henry said, "We're almost where you need to be. It's close now."

"Then I get to drive," Neal said.

"We'll take turns," Henry promised.

And in the way of dreams, the driver turned into Peter at some point.

"I want to drive," Neal said.

"When you're ready," Peter agreed. "Nearly there."

In the dream, Neal fell asleep again, confident in his friends.

 **#**

When he woke on Christmas Eve, he felt different, and he wasn't quite sure why. It was like he was still dreaming. He drank a cup of Italian roast coffee on the terrace, and hoped the chill in the air would wake him up for the last day of work before his vacation. He'd packed a bag that he'd take to the office with him, so he could head straight to the airport from the Federal Building.

"Can I tempt you with breakfast?" June asked as Neal jogged down the last flight of stairs with his bag.

He'd turned down the offer the last two mornings, worried about all of the team members who checked their watches when he walked in the door.

This time he saw Byron at the dining table, and wanted to make the most of one of the man's good days. Neal set his luggage down by the door and said, "Sure. I've got time."

"I'm so glad," June said.

Neal didn't linger over the meal, but he relished the food and the conversation. About twenty minutes after he sat down, he said, "I should head out. If I wait much longer I'll be late for the morning briefing."

"You've turned a corner," Byron said.

"What do you mean?"

"You've been wound up since you moved in. Stressed. I thought maybe it was me." Byron waved a hand at the wheelchair he sat in. "It can be difficult being around someone who's dying. But you're relaxed now."

That's what had been different this morning, Neal realized. It had been… weeks, even months, since he'd felt this calm. He couldn't say exactly what had worked this magic, but instead of stressing about letting people down, he was ready to go along for the ride and see what happened. He'd probably make mistakes, and he'd deal with them, learn from them, and move on. No one could expect more than that.

He thought about the cosmic turtle Billy had mentioned. Mozzie was right about the turtle having support from a team of elephants, but there was another aspect that was clear to Neal now. Turtles swam, and the Great A'Tuin probably went with the flow rather than struggling against the tide.

"I've got a good thing going," Neal said. "A great place to live, and a job that resembles what I dreamed of as a kid. I'm ready to slow down and enjoy the moment."

 _A/N: Thanks for reading!_

 _A few notes about other stories in this series that have ties to this one: If you want to the try the next story in the series, it's By the Book; that story reveals what Win-Win does and how Neal and Henry's mothers knew each other. If you want more details about Neal's interactions with the Marshals and asking them for a birth certificate, see Caffrey Conversation and Choirboy Caffrey. The character of Robert comes into his own as a bad guy in Caffrey Flashback and Caffrey Disclosure._

 _For insight about the process of writing this story, see "Who's in charge here?" on the Penna and Silbrith Conversation blog._

 _My next writing project will be for the AO3 Chocolate Box. This will be the third year I've participated, and I'm looking forward to getting my assignment and prompts. The Chocolate Box stories will be revealed in the last half of February. Then it's back to my novel!_

 _I love hearing from readers so if you have thoughts or questions about this story, about the Caffrey Conversation AU, or about my other writing projects, I hope you'll leave a comment or reach out._


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